


wasteland, baby

by memphisgreen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Actual Daddy Tom, Addict Harry, Blood and Torture, Choking, Dirty Talk, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Female Harry Potter, Female Voldemort (Harry Potter), Forced Marriage, Got that resurrection kink for ya, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Infidelity, Jealousy, Kidnapping, Lolita Harry, Lots O Rimming, Mobster Tom, Multi, Murder, One Shot Collection, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recreational Drug Use, Restraints, Rockband AU, Serial Killer Tom Riddle, Shady Business Tom, Size Kink, Soul Bond, Thief Harry, Thief Tom, Underage - Freeform, Virginity Kink, fingerbanging, metric shit ton of alternate universes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2020-05-15 13:56:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memphisgreen/pseuds/memphisgreen
Summary: 100 kinks/tropes, 100 stories.(first chapter contains links to chapters in list of summaries, tags / each story also tagged at the beginning)





	1. Summarizations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief summary and links to each chapter

1) [Needy / Clingy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297135/chapters/45896248#workskin) \- The one where Harry briefly laments letting Tom in. Short.

2) [Masturbation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297135/chapters/45896302#workskin) \- The one where 🐍 Voldemort makes Harry touch himself. Tags // Torture, Non Con, Blood/Spit as lube

3) [Bareback](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297135/chapters/45896368#workskin) \- The one where Harry thought he was done with (mobster?) Tom. He was not done. Tags // Dubious Consent

4) [Just The Tip](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297135/chapters/45896440#workskin) \- The one where Harry thought he was done with (murderer? Oh yeah, definitely murderer) Tom. He was still not done. Tags // Canonical Murder, Dubious Consent, Recreational Drug Use

5) [Kissing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297135/chapters/47788924#workskin) \- The one where Tom totally knows about Harry’s little crush on Cedric and works overtime to bag that first kiss at the Hogwarts Fair.

6) [Infidelity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297135/chapters/49308998#workskin) \- The one where Lolita!Harry has a thing for Daddy!Tom. Short. Tags // Underage, Dirty Talk, Infidelity, Female Harry

7) [First Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297135/chapters/49318106#workskin) \- The one where Harry squats in the wrong alley, much to Tom's delight. Tags // Pimp!Tom, addicted!Harry, underage, kidnapping/restraint, drug use, dubious consent, non con, daddy!kink, forced dirty talk, non con breath play, virginity kink, size!kink

8) [Breakup Sex](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297135/chapters/49319918#workskin) \- The one where Tom learns that even lovers drown.

9) [Jealousy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297135/chapters/49554521#workskin) \- The one where Tom Riddle's always been a jealous kind of guy. Tags // forced marriage, implied/referenced domestic abuse, non-con, not dealing with jealousy issues in any kind of healthy way

10) [Resurrection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297135/chapters/50765758#workskin) \- The one where Voldemort figures things out a little quicker in the graveyard. Tags // Female Voldemort, Female Harry, Mild gore, Underage, Gratuitously Beautiful Voldemort

11) [Blindfold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297135/chapters/56932183) - The one where Harry doesn’t remember Tom. Tags // past referenced non-con, past referenced kidnapping, past referenced violence, off screen murder, underage, serial killer Tom

12) [Lust (Love) at First Sight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297135/chapters/57115540) - The one where they are all in bands. Tags // short, Dumpster Fire Verse

13) [Kid!Fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297135/chapters/57172801) - The one where someone should PUT THAT THING BACK WHERE IT CAME FROM, OR SO HELP ME. Tags // short


	2. Needy/Clingy

He kisses like the devil, makes love like it’s the last thing he’s ever going to do. He takes Harry to hell and back, and Harry clings to him all the more for it. 

It’s that dreadful need that he wishes he could cut out of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly oblivious use of a Hozier lyric.


	3. Masturbation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags // Torture, Non Con, Blood/Spit as lube. 
> 
> Come on, just a typical Thursday night.

“Touch yourself.” The last bit of the word is hissed out, as snakelike as the man above him. Harry sits on his knees before the throne, a prayer on his lips that will not be answered. 

Voldemort flicks his wrist and the agony of that wandless _Crucio_ flays his nerves, right down to the marrow of his bone. He falls to his side and locks up tight, blood flooding his mouth when his teeth sink down into his tongue. It ends before a minute passes. Not that Harry would have any concept of that time other than to be mighty thankful that it had passed at all. 

He spits the blood on the floor, lets it drool out with his saliva so that the string can sway as he holds himself up on trembling arms. 

“Use it, Harry Potter.” Voldemort leans forward, knees on elbows and gives a very pointed look to the spattering of blood and spit. Harry closes his eyes, tired, _so_ tired as he gets back to his knees. 

He doesn’t let him wear clothes now, just the collar. Sometimes the restraints around his wrists and ankles, but he’s been good, he’s danced to the ever changing tune that Voldemort plays for him well enough to just have the collar. He’s thankful for just that, and he swallows down whatever disgust he feels for himself. He was asked something. Demanded. 

Harry’s prick is not interested in the proceedings. Voldemort cares not whether Harry wants to play his games or not, he’s just interested in what he can make his captive do. 

He can make his captive gather up a handful of blood and swipe it alongside his shy dick. Through lack of light and exercise, his hands have become soft, the only fault in them now is the four perpetual crescent shapes that Harry curls into them everyday. 

He makes the boy use his soft hands on his shy cock, he likes to watch his little bird pull and stroke and sweat under his light and his stare. 

It makes him so painfully hard underneath the silk of his robes. He leans back on his throne, spreads his legs so the boy can see. 

He watches the shaky exhale, the bob of that fragile adam’s apple, and still his hand doesn’t stop the slow pull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snakey!Voldemort


	4. Bareback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags // Dubious Consent

“I’m not sure…” Whatever else he was planning on saying trails off. Tom leans over his arse, his hips, his mouth red and swollen when Harry twists to look back at him on all fours. 

Tom had already stopped him from coming twice. With just his mouth. Harry’s never been rimmed before, never done anything but the soft exchange of kisses. Then nothing after Tom left and now he’s been trying to make up for that lost time. 

“Harry…” He whispers it against his skin, his kissing mouth occupied again. He keeps eye contact, these kisses are meant to calm but they only feed the knowledge that Tom Riddle is not a man he can say no to. Not anymore. 

His long, gloriously long, fingers pump back inside him and Harry knows he looks ridiculous right about now, when those grazes turn steady and his mouth hangs open in pleasure. 

“I know you want me inside. You must be aching for me to fill you up, it’s been too long. Isn’t that what you said?” A twist of his wrist and Harry lets out the moan he’s been desperately trying to hold in. “Harry? Isn’t that what you said? It’s been too long, I’ve been gone too long.” Another twist and the lube squelches obscenely loud in Harry’s little apartment, another squelch and Tom’s just starting on the truly wonderful fingerfucking he’s giving Harry’s arse. 

“I always come back for what’s mine.” Tom leans over him and their skin slides together with the sheen of their sweat. The little lamp that Luna had given him twinkles, lights up the red of Tom’s eyes. They’d been blue when he’d left. 

He tenses, looking deep into that red fire. “You’re so supple.” Tom’s fingers glide inside steadily and his thumb starts to message the lovely pink of Harry’s hole. “You suck me right back in every time I try to pull out.” He fucks into him again, just his fingers, just the promise of more to come. Harry dips his hips to follow him, lands more heavily on his knees when his arms start to shake from the strain. 

There’s a ring on Tom’s other hand that wasn’t there when he left and the cold metal digs into Harry’s ribs. It’s something to ground him when his balls draw up tight, when that warmth starts to spread inside him. 

Tom’s thumb gapes him and Tom spits right into him, licks around his edges again. The dirtiness of it, the depravity of how Tom so casually owns him hits him hard in that memorable moment.

He says ok before he realizes the implications of it. 

Tom slings him around, too much strength in his arms, and Harry gasps and shakes when he lands on his back, the man who is about to own him completely above. 

“Spread your legs more, darling.” Harry, very acutely and suddenly, feels the sting of tears in his eyes. He nods and acquiesces, his mouth trembling with the amount of terror that suddenly swamps his lizard brain. His cock flags slightly and Tom’s eyes soften above him. 

“It won’t hurt, it'll be good.” He’s caring about all the wrong things, but Harry nods and puts knees up to ears and puts his arms around the man that came back for him. 

The first initial thrust hurts, the pain is more pressure than anything and the pull out feels both terrifying and exhilarating. He forces himself to calm down, to relax, _relax_. Tom drags across that same spot that his fingers worked like a masterpiece and that’s a good starting point. 

Because when Tom Riddle comes inside him, when Tom makes him completely and utterly his with mouth, cock, and cum that’s when Harry will never be able to get away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mobster!Tom that only slightly was.


	5. Just the Tip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags // Canonical Murder, Dubious Consent, Recreational Drug Use

He can’t believe Ron talked them into this. A Hufflepuff rager. Hermione is going to kill them in the morning. Mostly, she’s going to kill Harry for letting her get this drunk. 

And she is _drunk_. She’s strewn across him and Ron on one of the many golden wood pews that fill the room. She takes another sip from the black plastic cup and lets out a high giggle. Harry can’t help but laugh after her. Until she starts to groan just as quickly. “Ugh. The spins. I got the spins.” Ron passes the spliff back to Harry and puts an arm around her. “Need some fresh air, yeah?” He asks, soft and sweet, and she looks up at him. 

Well. He’s seen that look before. 

He lets the joint dangle from his mouth while he helps Ron get Hermione vertical. “I can get her, Har. You gonna stay?” He looks hopeful, and Hermione is grinning and simultaneously trying to climb Ron and snog him. 

“Yeah, yeah, no worries.” He raises his eyebrows at the two, obviously envious of the fucking that’s about to take place between them. It’s been a long time since - well, since he’s gotten anything close to an assisted orgasm. 

He watches them bob and weave through the crowded room, and feels a little sorry for himself. He sits back down and lets himself enjoy a well deserved Hufflepuff smoke. 

It figures that would also be right about the time that Tom Riddle sits next to him. Harry rolls his eyes away from him and takes another hit. Holds. Holds. Holds. He needs to be way more fucked up than he is right now. But hospitality is demanded in _this_ common room so he offers the joint to To- to Riddle. 

Of course, he declines. Harry narrows eyes but shrugs and will not let good weed go to waste. He smokes and watches the party around him, too many girls and boys, too many drinks and drugs. But it's end of year. The end of the last year. He thinks about all the end of years he’s been coming down here, between barrels and vines, and he’ll probably never be down here again. It makes him unbearably sad. 

Riddle picks up on his sentimentality immediately. He has no patience for it, never had. Not even when - well, he really doesn’t want to think about that. 

“Let me take you around the lake, you look like you could use some fresh air yourself.” He stands, his dark eyes serious and seriously intent on Harry. He looks absurd in the middle of all this drunken revelry. 

Harry takes another hit in retaliation. He likes to watch the way Tom’s jaw tightens through the curtain of smoke he exhales. 

“You don’t get to take me anywhere, Riddle.” He feels loose limbed from the pot, but it makes his tongue sharp, angry. 

Tom pulls the joint from slow hands and Harry stands up, confrontational. But Tom just gives him that slow drag of a smile, the joint between his own lips. He takes a massive drag, impressive when Harry wants to be anything but impressed. He leans close to Harry and he tries to jerk back but Tom catches his head in big hands and leans in. 

Harry opens his mouth without hesitation. The taste of the smoke is acrid on his tongue, too much even though he’s been smoking the whole night. Only when he feels the soft press of smokeless lips does he manage to stumble back. He ends up coughing out the massive plume of smoke. 

He feels betrayed by himself, he feels like an idiot but when he glances around no one seems to notice or care. He gives one withering glare to Tom before stomping out the door. 

He knows Tom’s right behind him. 

They exit through the tunnel, around the barrels and the kitchen. Tom follows him all the way out the heavy doors of the castle.

The wind is cool when it floats past them and it helps the heat that covers Harry’s face. He wraps arms around himself and waits.

“Are you done avoiding me?” Tom asks, right into his ear. Harry barely notices, he’s having a hard time right now standing up straight and when he tries to think about leaving, he ends up wondering how he managed to get out here in the first place. His brows are still bent when he finally responds. 

“Yes - No, I’m not done... we agreed.” His voice trails off as he watches a cluster of tiny fairies dance along with the wind. Tom sneakily wraps an arm around his waist and leads him away, Harry looks concerned only for a moment before he rolls his eyes and lets him. They travel down the dirt paths that lead to the inky black lake. Several areas along the shore have floating balls of light, small batches of students scattered around. 

Tom takes him further until they are well hidden behind trees and brambles. The lake still reflects the beautiful lights from the castle but the hiding spot is removed from the quiet hush of young lovers. 

It’s always been their spot.

He lets Tom conjure a blanket, pillows and groans when he lays belly down on it. It was a long walk and his once loose limbs now feel tired, the smoking and the drinking sending a dangerous lethargy through his body. He should be concerned. Out here. Alone. With Tom. 

Tom kneels beside him and because he can, because Harry hasn’t stopped him yet, he runs hands down his legs, his back, through his hair. Harry always loved his hands. 

“I told you that was it. I told you once was enough.” _Lies._ Harry doesn’t say it out loud, not when there are no witnesses. Tom might care about him, but he’ll never care about Harry as much as he cares about himself. As if to prove the point, he says quietly in his ear, “And you were there, Harry. Just as compliant and complicit.” 

Harry tries to jerk up but Tom keeps those big hands on the center of his back, keeps him pressed to the blanket. His head spins and he feels nauseous for a second or two before he swallows it back down.

“I wasn't. I didn’t know you were - I - I was not a part of that!” He won’t struggle again, not when he’s still high as a kite and Tom is painfully sober. Fuck. Fuck. He panics again, looks around at this clearing that he felt safe in lifetimes ago. 

“I’m not going to hurt you. I never have.” Tom rubs his shoulder but he slides so that he sits just on Harry’s thighs, right under the swell of his arse. “I’d never hurt you.” 

“Don’t.” He breathes slowly, hates that he melts underneath these hands. Tom’s hands - sometimes when he closes his eyes, he can still see those hands, those bloody hands. 

He doesn’t close his eyes. 

“Harry. You remember what I promised? Don’t you?” His hands, clean, warm, dry, push up Harry’s shirt so he can roam overheated skin. Harry still doesn’t stop him. He’s thinking about that promise and trying not to cry. 

“Yes, of course, but, I mean, I didn’t think you were capable- I thought I could help, I thought- “ It hurts too much to finish that sentence, even in his own mind. How big a fool he was, just another in a long line and how stupid could he be to think that he could change him, that he could have stop- 

Tom’s hands move lower. Harry tenses up immediately, climbs his way out of the thoughts that cloud everything around him. 

His shorts are loose around his hips, a pair of cargos that he’s had for forever, finally cut off at the knee when he grew too tall for them. Tom Riddle inches them down his bare arse. 

“Hedonist.” A wry chuckle, like this is all still months and months ago, like they were before. Harry doesn’t know if he can do that again. 

“Stop.” He whispers and Tom immediately complies, pulls Harry’s shorts back up, but still he sits there and lets his hands grip the bare skin of hips that have been denied to him. 

“Harry. You can’t throw everything away just because you got your hands a little dirty. It’s our secret. You did that.” While Harry chews on those truly damning words, Tom’s hands start to push his shirt up more, to the smooth skin of his back. He places a gentle kiss to the knob of his spine and pushes his erection forward. 

Harry bites his lip. 

“I just. I wanted to protect you. I can’t though, you’ve made it impossible.” Harry whispers, lets Tom’s weight rock back and forth. Lets himself forget. 

“Harry, I’ve never needed your protection. I’ve only ever needed you.” Tom’s never said something like this, never really told Harry how he feels about him. It flows over Harry like melted sugar, weighty and too sweet. “I need you, now, more than ever. I can’t lose you.” There’s something so beautifully tragic in his voice, Harry can’t help himself. He leans up, sways a little but Tom puts hands on, helps him until they are both facing each other on their knees. 

“I don’t know, I still feel like this is all wrong, Tom, Tom.” He breaks down at that moment, just like that night months ago. They were so strangely in the same position they’re in now, but they were kneeling in blood, and blood was on Tom, he was covered in it, and he had taken Harry, he had- 

Tom seems to know exactly the moment the breakdown happens because when Harry opens his mouth to say, Tom, you killed them, you killed them, and I watched, he takes that same big hand and wraps it around Harry’s mouth so the words remain inside. Harry’s eyes are big and green and terrified when he looks up at him. 

“ _You_ promised.” Tom eyes keep steady and Harry is entranced, sways with him and lets him wrap an arm around his middle. Tom pulls him close, keeping those hiccuping cries locked away and cradling Harry’s head on his shoulder. “You promised, darling. You promised you would never leave me, you promised to take my secrets to the grave.” He pushes his nose into Harry’s neck, into his place there. He places a plush kiss to his neck, pulls his ear lobe into his mouth just the way Harry likes. It’s confusing, this attraction and revulsion. It hurts his heart to know that he’s broken at least one of his promises to this boy, this boy he thought he’d spend forever with. 

It makes his heart ache to think of him alone in this world. Tom lets him pull his hand held over his mouth, his palm curved, his fingers long and strong. Harry cradles the hand and places one soft kiss in the center. He doesn’t know if it’s absolution or just the worrying obsession he has for Tom, separated and both of them miserable. 

It makes him worry about that kind of devotion and need between them. That they couldn’t break with each other. 

The kiss does something for Tom, and while Harry panics under the influence, he watches. His eyes could never hide anything from Tom and the moment that Harry seems to be lost to it he looks up and meets Tom’s eyes. But Tom is ready. 

He takes his mouth, all that frustration from their separation finding an outlet. Harry lets Tom guide him back down to the blanket, catching him between his thighs. Tom has always taken, and Harry thrives in giving. They kiss under mangled starlight, wrapped tight around each other. Harry lifts his hands to drag through the silk that Tom’s hair is made of, the strong tendons in his neck, the strength in his shoulders. He’s engulfed by him. 

Tom breaks the kiss to throw Harry’s tee completely off, his button up ripped off without thought, but he dives back down to take Harry’s mouth again, like any breath is wasted when it’s not shared between them. 

Harry feels hands between them, Tom hunches over them and scrambles to undo button and zip. Harry reaches hesitantly for his hand, arches against him to take the sting out of it. 

“Maybe - maybe we should wait, slow down?” He’s scared, but he doesn’t want to admit that to Tom, to this boy who has already been inside of him, who owns all his firsts, who wants to own all his lasts. Tom doesn't like the uncertainty on his face, so he swoops in, kisses less aggressive and more meaningful, hands rubbing him down like he knows how skittish Harry is. 

Harry gasps, arches his back when Tom gets back to his neck, devours him like he used to. It feels good, too good. This has never been an issue between them. Tom presses forward eagerly, grinding a truly mouthwatering erection in the tender skin of Harry’s thigh. 

It’s been … too long. 

Harry lets himself loose in the ebb and flow of their reunion, trying to gather those lingering feelings of discomfort close to him.

“Tom, please, let's wait - I think we should - “ Tom’s hands grip his wrists in one tiny second, they hold strong. 

Harry, very resolutely, does not panic. 

“I’ve been all the way inside you, tasted you.” He transfers both wrists to one hand and shimmies his slacks and pants down until he frees his prick. Harry leans up to watch him pull himself off a few times, to gather the slick at the tip and slide it down his shaft. He hisses at how good Tom looks, tightens his legs around his waist. “I bet you still taste just as sweet.” Before he can twist or blink Tom drags his loose shorts back down. He takes their pricks in one hand, the rough drag of his sticky palm enough to have Harry arching back up toward him. 

Tom locks eyes when he brings his palm up to swipe his tongue across. Harry’s heart jackhammers in his chest and he can feel the same beat in his dick. Tom looks down, the wind blowing his adorable fucking curls over his forehead, that self satisfied smirk still as present and prominent today as it was years ago. 

“Oh, Harry, darling.” It’s not his usual laugh, this is softer, darker, more dangerous. He rubs a thumb across a wrist in his hand and Harry could struggle, could break that hold but he won’t. Tom scoots closer on his knees and Harry’s leg widen to accommodate him. 

“Let me have a taste. It’s been so long,” He thrusts again, and Harry’s hole clenches tight, eyes almost black with all the lust and love, yes, love that circles around them. “Just one little taste.” He drags his wet hand across their pricks again, slow and torturous. 

Harry is nodding, swallowing tight against his own reservations. 

Tom flips him lightening quick, and Harry barely manages to get his arms and knees underneath him. He has vertigo for several heart stopping seconds, dreadful spins. Tom rests two large, warm palms on his hips and pulls him up, until his back his bowed and his arse is up. There’s a tightening and a tingling, and he panics about his own wand but remembers in that moment that he had kept it in Gryffindor tower, panics again at being stupid enough to leave it. 

But, then Tom does what he does best. Unmakes him. 

His mouth is ravenous after all this time without Harry, and he makes up for it. Harry reaches one arm up, grinding back into his mouth, and clenching a handful of grass. 

It’s. So. Good. He rides Tom’s mouth, his tongue laves around the sensitivity of his hole, then it thrusts inside him, just the smallest bit, just the tiniest ounce of pressure. Tom’s hands grip tight the bare skin of his hips, keep his body pulled tight, rutting back and forth. His teeth finally come into play, when Harry is so wet and leaking, little nibbles to his hole and the fleshy peach of his arse. 

“My fingers? Huh? Would that make you feel better?” Harry nods so fast he feels the world tilt and spin but Tom keeps him anchored. Then, a slow slide of finger, a tongue that licks around it, and Harry pushes himself up to his elbows to writhe back on it. He’s so wound tight, it feels like his body is shaking apart. 

Tom can play him with fingers and tongue better than anyone, he knows all the tricks to make his little bird sing. Harry bites the meat of his upper arm, keeping those whimpers and whines down to the minimum. The lights still float closer to the lake. 

The orgasm takes him by surprise, coming between one breath and the next. He moans, too loud, arches back against the fingers that fill him up, smiles at the groan that Tom lets loose. It warms him from the inside out. His upper body droops, that post orgasmic bliss sending him toward wonderful oblivion. 

“Not yet, darling. Not quite yet.” He makes a confused sound, but understands that reciprocity is the very least he can do after that. He gets back to his elbows, intends to get up and turn around and put his mouth to work but one hot heavy hand on his lower back stops him. 

Harry feels the tip of Tom’s erection slide through the mess of his hole, the heat bleeds through. Tom flicks it up and down, lets it catch in the heat of himself, and slide away. Harry’s hands bunch the blanket below him. 

He slides himself in further this time, and Harry can just start to feel the first hint of pressure when he pulls back. The shiver that goes through his body makes Tom grip his hip, keep him still. ”You’re still feel as tight as ever, like the first time, the last time.” Harry is frozen and all those terrible moments that he wishes he can undo come raining down on him. Harry’s breathing becomes ragged, a lot like he can't breathe, not when he's reminded of that last time they were like this, when Tom was still bathed in his dead father's blood. 

The panic overrides and he scrambles to get up, to get air but Tom wraps vine tight around him. He holds him close, murmurs to him softly like he wasn't the one to induce this, to reduce him to this in the first place. Harry's head spins, even as he lays it back on Tom’s strong shoulder. He hiccups and remembers all the breathing exercises he looked up last summer. 

He's fine. He's fine now. 

It comes from his mind and the boy that holds him so completely. Tom turns him somehow, manhandles him however because Harry is both exhausted and fuzzy. He tries to trace his thoughts, this conversation, but the buzz he came out here with still hangs heavy over him. 

Tom lies him flat on his back, a truly impressive cluster of constellations over them. It could be minutes or hours, but he keeps Tom in his peripheral and the ministrations done to his body are at least pleasant, they lull his heart out of its erratic beat. 

He feels the weight on him shift.

”You're going to have to deal with that, darling, before too long.” Tom doesn't offer to deal with it for him again, not after last time. Harry nods, slow breaths and clenched fists. 

Tom lifts his legs up, slots himself back into place. He slides Harry’s leg on his shoulder and reaches down to slip fingers back inside him. Harry moans, he can’t help himself. Tom has always been able to undo him. He keeps him dancing on prick and tongue and fingers, it’s not fair. His own dick flags in the cool air, semi hard but gaining interest the longer Tom keeps his fingers inside him. He can feel Tom’s erection, slick and hot, on his inner thigh. Before long, when the relaxation finally starts, he feels Tom slide it through the sloppy mess of his hole again. 

Tom pushes his legs apart, wide, wider than comfortable and Harry has always liked the strain it puts on his thighs. 

Tom is gasping, thrusting against him mindlessly. It does something to Harry, the thrill of having that kind of power over this boy of his that’s always in control. It’s intoxicating, more than the weed and liquor that still rides high in his system, it’s a sweeter burn. 

Tom leans over him, close, whispers in his ear, “Just the tip, sweet darling, just let me in and if you want to stop, we’ll stop.” And Harry, scared and terrified, still so damningly entwined with this beautiful monster only lets one small moment pass before he catches eyes, blue on green, and nods. 

He can feel Tom’s fist against his rim as his prick pushes through, making it feel bigger, weightier than usual. It’s been too long, and even with the rimming and the finger fucking it’s still a burning stretch, a conscious focus to relax and let the other boy in. 

Harry could never hold out against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note, complete backstory for this. Total porn eclipsed plot as is often found in most of my work. Shrug. 
> 
> Also, the spins are terrible.


	6. Kissing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, this is totally based on that scene in She’s The Man.

“Right, mate. You got this. You got this.” Ron grabs hold of his shoulders and jumps, pulling him up and down with him. Harry lets out a shocked burst of laughter, his hands clutching at Ron’s pale arms. 

“I can do this.” Ron nods at him, grin stretching across his face. Hermione is in his peripheral and she doesn’t look nearly as pumped up as Ron. 

“This is problematic on so many levels, I can’t believe McGonagall sanctioned this.” The woman stands on the platform, her arms crossed, eyes never leaving the two students she’s charged with.

Hermione somehow looks more repulsed than McGonagall at the annual Hogwarts Fair. 

Harry knows … that this is childish and immature and frankly, quite sad that he’s paying for his first kiss. His first kiss with his first real crush. 

And it’s with Cedric Diggory. Gorgeous, sweet, kind, prefect, and a seeker to boot. Harry is so heart eyes, so lost in the eager longing of first love he’s become downright smitten. Of course, he’s only spoken to Cedric the once. It had been right after breakfast and he’d asked for the time, 8:02. It was wonderful. 

He smiles from the memory and he’s sure his eyes have that glazed look in them that Hermione abhors. 

“Harry.” Hermione pushes Ron off, shoving in so that she can look Harry right in the eyes. She’s taller than Harry, so he looks up at her. Her brown eyes squint in the fading sun of a lovely autumn evening, and the frizz of her hair completely takes up his view of the stage. He hears Cedric laugh and the quick call of next. 

She moves with him when he takes a step. 

“Harry, this is quite possibly the most idiotic thing you’ve ever done. You can’t even talk to him! You’ve built this up way too much. Harry.” She shakes him a little, her eyes and brows scrunching up in confusion colored with disgust. “He’s just.. a boy!” Ron shoots her a look, the incredulous line of his brow making Hermione seem to blush. 

Another laugh from the stage, sounds of movement. He’s next. Of fuck, he’s next. He tries to peek around the nest of Hermione’s hair. She stands as still as a statue, Ron’s hand suddenly on her arm. His face turns toward the stage and she follows his line of sight. 

Her face blanks, eyes widening when she darts a look at him. He notices her quiet panic immediately with years of friendship between them, Harry’s own panic follows.

The impatient call of next right before he sputters out, “What? What is it?”

His ticket is clenched between nerveless fingers when Hermione quickly moves away from him so he can rise up to the platform. 

Only Cedric Diggory is nowhere to be found. 

Instead. It’s him. (Horrendously. Insane. Motherfucker. Hermione had unfortunately let them choose the last word for the acronym, but it had stuck nonetheless.)

“Ugh. Him.” Harry mutters softly. His own face scrunches up the same way that Hermione’s had. Why? Why have the fates abandoned him so? He can’t stop the pout that forms. 

“Potter.” McGonagall's voice makes him jump, and he twists out of both Ron and Hermione’s hands. 

He will not tuck tail and run over someone as high and mighty as Tom Riddle. Hermione's hand flings out one last time, they grip, a pulse of comfort and Harry grins wryly, looks up at Hermione through his glasses, “He’s just a boy, right?” He swallows the ball of disappointment in his throat. 

Men walking to their gallows have walked with more pep in their step than Harry walking up that platform. His discontent sinks slowly the whole way down. But he makes each foot move in front of the other, step after step until he gets to the only unoccupied chair. He sits in it with a heavy heart. He hears some hushed voices behind him, and McGonagall’s heels click on the wood and her brisk voice is higher when a tussle sounds behind the curtain on the platform. 

“Harry.” He (Heinously Egomaniacal, and really it was Hermione, who had loved making acronyms so much and hated Tom Riddle just as much, that evolved the usage of the words HIM and HE in _that_ tone of voice to strictly refer to Tom Riddle between the three.) says his name slowly, bringing his attention back. He holds his palm out for the mangled up ticket in Harry’s still clenched fist. 

“Oh, right. Sorry.” He tries to flatten it but gives up on the efforts as soon as the sad little paper changes hands. 

Harry can only look down for so long before he lifts eyes up to Tom Riddle. He’s surprised by what he sees there. He was expecting loathing, disdain, a general feeling of revulsion. It isn't like that at all. There is a tenderness in Riddle’s expression that Harry has never seen, but sort of like when Dad looks at Mum when she isn’t looking, it strikes a nerve in Harry, that realization. 

How long has Riddle been looking at him like that?

Riddle is perched on his seat, leaning close, too close but that’s the point isn’t it? The whole point of this kissing booth, the whole point to catch Cedric. He keeps his eyes on Riddle, lost in that brown and burgundy and they inch closer, closer and Harry thinks _Cedric…_ but it’s fading, fading as fast as the distance between their lips.

Everything is happening fast, too fast. Tom Riddle, not H.I.M., not H.E., only Tom presses pleasant lips to Harry’s own, and soon Harry feels the slickness of Tom’s tongue come out to taste his bottom lip, to pull it into his own mouth and suckle it there, using just enough pressure with his teeth to have Harry leaning forward for more. There’s an obscene sound when his bottom lip pops out of Tom’s mouth. 

He takes a breath in the space between them before Tom lunges again, his large hand cradling the side of Harry’s face, the other pulling him close by the back of his neck. The world fades away and Harry decidedly loves kissing now, would kiss for forever and a day just like this. Tom’s tongue comes into his mouth, rubbing sinfully against his own, and Harry feels like he’s sliding off the chair now, his hands come up to rest on Tom’s shoulders and surprisingly his bum lands not on wooden floor, but warm lap full of wood. 

What. 

He jerks back, and he sure he looks as hilariously unsettled as he feels, his arms wrapped around Tom Riddle’s shoulders, sitting on his lap. 

Sitting on his lap. 

Riddle’s hands have found their way to his waist, and he clenches tight. Harry’s head swivels around, doing a good impersonation of an exorcism waiting to happen. McGonagall is nowhere to be seen and with dawning horror he turns back to him. Gone is the tender look in Riddle’s eye. He bucks up once, enough that Harry shoots him an irritated look. Harry twists in his hold, pushes his hands on the strong shoulders in front of him and tries to place his feet on the floor. 

His face blossoms red when the cat calls start. Mortification isn’t strong enough a word. 

“Come now, not too bad for a first kiss?” Tom Riddle’s face is all sly satisfaction. It’s falls off as soon as McGonagall grabs them both up by the ears. Harry’s never been so grateful.


	7. Infidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags // underage, infidelity, definitely some Lolita shit going on, virginity, dirty talk.

Tom Riddle takes her, finally, _finally_ on bare wood floors, warmed by the summer sun coming through the open window. He has a hand over her mouth and her panties are still wound around one ankle. Through the crack of the door she can still hear the tea party a floor below, her younger sister and her friends, her mother, her father.

She can hear the clink of china, the low laughs of her parent’s friends even when he whispers all manner of filth in her ear. Dirty girl, naughty slut, mine, mine, mine. If she’s being honest, that’s the one she likes the most. It hurts at first, but that’s alright, she’s always like a bit of pain, a bit of a bite.

She had taken her first look at Tom Marvolo Riddle all those months ago and knew that he was vicious, from the cold way he treated his wife, bored and contemptable to the disdain he showed to everyone at the Ministry Gala, like no one was worthy of his time.

He had taken one look at her, and Harry knew, under her blush (and hadn’t she slapped and slapped her cheeks until they were rosy red, Mum wouldn’t allow makeup, not yet) and her new winter cloak there was want under the careful cut of his eyes. She lived to see that kind of want in a man’s eyes and Tom Riddle was all man, from his magic to his might.

She watches him collect his wife, his darling child, his eyes on her as she takes slow, careful steps to rejoin the party. She can feel him leaking out of her, come in a pretty shade of pink, the last of her innocence.

It belonged to him now.

She turns to her friends, rubbing her bare thighs together, the inside of her shorts damp and sticky, and watches him do his goodbye rounds from the corner of her eyes.

No one knows, no one suspects that they had fucked just one floor up in her bedroom as the sun shone on her pastel walls.

As he shakes her father’s hand when he leaves, she can clearly see the six tiny points of her bite. She can still taste him in her mouth, rubs her tongue across an incisor and keeps her baby doll eyes on him.

She turns fourteen next month and he had promised her a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ... is .... sorta my jam right now and I definitely want to explore more Lolita!Harry and also the other side of this. So... that bus does still run to hell, huh.


	8. First Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags // Pimp!Tom, addicted!Harry, underage, kidnapping/restraint, drug use, dubious consent, non con, daddy!kink (yep. yep. there it is), forced dirty talk, non con breath play (so, uh, choking? yes. yes. that’s what that is), virginity kink (well, one person likes it), size!kink

He finds the boy in his back alley, too early for morning and too late for night but a good time for a smoke, nonetheless. The slip of a thing has fallen over from his crouch on the wall and he’s covered in filth and garbage, a dirty newspaper draped over his head against the drizzle of pre-dawn rain. It’s icy and there’s a blue tinge to his face and hands. Skin and bones, but alive when Tom comes closer to check.

It’s dangerous where he lives, not many homeless, they stick to the more hospitable parts of the city, not anywhere near his domain. This boy is new, and unfortunately asleep in the wrong place.

Tom’s got a slow day ahead of him, enough time for a distraction.

The boy struggles to wake up, his small hands clutch the wool of Tom’s pea coat, catches in his sleeves as he gets him up and in. He half drags him up the stairs, a special room he keeps in this house just for these little fits of interest.

The room he guides him to, shaking and frozen and still high on whatever, is bare except for the bed and the standup lamp in the corner. He lets him lay there, shivering and almost right back to sleep while he gets the shower across the hall started.

He gets him up and it’s only then that his eyes finally open so he can see all that glorious green.

He is uncommonly pretty and in Tom’s business, when pretty is common, true beauty is the light that all the moths flock to.

This boy is beautiful.

The colt knee’d dew eyed babes that crowd him day in and day out have nothing on this magnificent creature.

He always likes to wash them, and the boy doesn’t protest, just skitters away until his back touches the wall, the tile still cold. He hisses but let’s Tom scour him down, Tom’s shirt and pants getting completely wet in the process. He washes hair, and underarms, and skinny belly, between toes and fingers. His boy can barely keep those beautiful eyes open.

Especially after, when he’s warm and groggy. Tom puts him in one of his button ups, the curve of his arse a tease under the hem. He’s unaware of anything more important than his name (when finally prompted) and the drug he craves.

Tom isn’t going to give him _that_ , not yet, instead he gives him a bump and tries to get his story out of him.

It’s not surprising, stories like his are a dime a dozen, as uninteresting as he is pretty. Tom soothes him with some pills, downers, when he starts asking questions, like _where am I_ and _who are you?_ That can wait. The boy, Harry, minds him dutifully, swallows pills dry, what a little champion. Tom rubs his glossy hair until those too long eyelashes brush pink cheeks.

He’s not too far gone from what he can tell.

When all the other boys were chasing pussy, boy and girl alike, Tom was learning how to make money off it. Those girls and boys could be controlled, he found out, then that opened a completely new and enterprising stream of revenue. He’s sampled now and then; he’s certainly never had to pay for anything as effortlessly easy as sex. He’s never been endeared before, that’s the line.

Harry Potter is uncomfortably endearing.

He gets Barty to run a background and soon he knows everything about his new little pet project. Orphaned and unwanted, no friends, no family now that the trust fund has been picked dry, and his boy, his beautiful boy tossed out like yesterday’s garbage.

Just turned sweet sixteen too, such a shame.

His baby boy wasn’t a blip on anyone’s radar. Just how he likes them.

By the time he pushes himself away from his desk, he’s already gone over his plans a hundred times over, actions and consequences, possibilities are endless. Only one thing for sure.

He doesn’t want to share this one, not yet.

Harry is in the process of trying to twist his skinny little wrist out of the handcuffs that Tom left him in when he comes back upstairs. Sweat licks across his nose, beads at his temples and it’s lovely in the lamplight. Tom leans in the open door and admires the view until Harry freezes, trembles.

Fear only enhances him.

“Darling, you’re shivering.” His tone rides a hefty line of condescension, it curls around the boy like his halo of wild ringlets. His eyes are wide and so, _so_ green when he finally looks Tom in the eyes.

“Mister, Mister please. I’m not gonna tell anybody, please let me go.” His teeth knock together as violently as his knees when Tom creeps closer, the chain of his handcuffs clacking together when he jerks away to stand by the side of the bed. His wrist is red and raw but still he pulls, still he tries.

Tom can’t help but laugh at his little kitten, scared and cornered. His eyes are frantic, and Tom wants to tell him, darling baby boy, there’s no way out for you. Not anymore. But he keeps it to himself.

At least Harry has the decency to not scream.

He’s breathing hard, frantic breaths and his eyes are just that shade of frightened that Tom always gets hard from. That fear does it to him every time and when he reaches for that flushed face the boy flinches and Tom groans, hooked himself.

“If I give you what you want, will you be a good boy for me?” Tom leans against the post between them. Harry stretches away, his eyes twisting this way and that always coming back to Tom.

Harry bites his berry lips, gnaws on them until they bleed that beautiful dark purple plush. Tom can hardly keep his eyes from them.

“Where is it?” His voice is quiet, even as he pulls farther away from Tom. Tom sits elegantly at the foot of the bed, one knee crossed over the other and pulls the little bag out of his pocket. He shakes it loose and sits up just to miss the lunge his little darling makes for it.

He’s quicker than the boy expects, and while he’s sprawled face first, Tom shoots around, already wrapping five angry fingers around the back of his neck.

The boy doesn’t kick out like Tom expects, but he can feel the anger and helplessness in the taunt bare legs that he slides himself between.

Harry looks delicious in his clothes.

“I want it before. I’ll be good but give it to me first.” He bites out around the cotton Tom stuffs his face into. Tom laughs at the sheer audacity of this shadow of a boy that now exists under his hands and his stirring cock.

“No, not one minute before I get what I want. And darling, you know what I want.” Harry’s been on the streets for less than a month, long enough to get mixed in with the wrong crowd, long enough to slipslide into drugs, but not long enough to be broken.

“Fuck you, creep.” He does thrash this time, that healthy dose of fear is a wildfire in his little bony chest. Tom can feel his own anger catch light, flicker up to meet this boy’s.

“Now, Harry, that’s rude. Disrespectful...” He pushes the boy’s head into covers, until he can barely hear the muffled gasps, until the boy’s back bows and all that strength in his arms makes the veins in his hands stand out as they clutch in the covers. His dick slots itself right into the nestle of his arse, surprisingly plush, a peach that grows out of such a slender tree.

He finally allows the boy’s head up, and it makes him thrust shallowly forward, dry and chafing and drinking in like all those gulps of air Harry pulls into his lungs.

How sweet this boy will be.

Tom lays over him, crushing him into the bed to speak softly into his ear, “...and entirely incorrect.”

“After, please. Please let me have it after, please.” He pulls back just enough to watch those watery eyes dilate. This begging, even though he’s already pulled these words from every boy and girl that’s been beneath him, feels different, more special, better in a way, sweeter.

In itself, addicting.

“We’ll see how good you can be.” The boy fights his immediate reaction, anger at being controlled, being denied.

It matters little to Tom.

He slides him, still face down, into the center of the bed. His hands and fingers trailing along the soft skin that trembles in his hold. Fear or withdraw, or perhaps a little of both that makes his arm shake in the cuffs, his back shiver when Tom rubs possessive hands over bare skin.

“How many have had you, I wonder. How many have emptied their loads in this sweet little body?” The boy shudders and tries to flinch away from him but his hands and mouth are everywhere. They linger over the cotton that stands between Tom and the sharp juts of his wingless shoulder blades, and his mouth marks a beautiful line of bruises, everywhere it can each, a perfect imprint of teeth in the flesh that lays quiet beneath him.

That won’t do. He wants the boy to be active in his debasement, if not a willing participant at least cognizant.

Tom doesn’t do this often, generally his mouth never sullies itself with the sins of his flesh, he likes to give, he likes to pound, and hurt. But the boy, this little light that had beckoned to him in the alley inspires a gentler nature.

His mouth takes first the boy’s tight hole, a furl of healthy pink, a tightness that eludes to more than just a clench.

He smiles, slick with the venomous spit that clings between his mouth and the boy.

“Oh. _Oh_. Now, Harry, be a good boy and tell me the answer.” His grip on his hips turns sharp, deadly. “Don’t lie to me boy, I’ll know.” And he will, like a sixth, seventh sense Tom has always been fine tuned to lies, can smell than just as easily as spring flowers. No one has been able to fool him, and certainly not this little angel he has in his bed.

A remarkably lucky quality to have in his line of business.

“I’ve only used my mouth, you piece of utter shite. I hope you fucking -“ Tom slides a finger inside the tight clench of his little boy pussy, almost dry and he chokes on his verbal assault. He makes a sound so adorable Tom wants to choke him on his prick next.

But as feral as his little boy is, he’ll wait.

“Is that being good, Harry?” He jerks his finger back into the boy, whose body kisses him tight in terror. “Is that being a good boy for daddy, hmm?” The boy’s body is one line of steel, breath held like thunder in his chest. He lays himself over the boy and grinds the swell of his dick into a rigid thigh, always liking a little pain with his pleasure.

Harry will too.

He catches hold of all those curls, soft as satin in his hand and pulls until he can see those watery eyes and bitten lips, can see the hate a little better in those clearer eyes.

“Answer me, boy before I fuck you dry.” No idle threat. Tom’s taken boys smaller than him with nothing, so that they ache and cry the morning after, always leaving with a thank you on their raw lips.

“No.” He growls out, his free hand clenching tight in the white covers. Tom gives him a shake, expectancy on his face, like pulling teeth with this one.

“Daddy.” His boy’s face blooms bright with the violet red blush that steals across his cheekbones, mixes with the freckles on his nose. Adorable. Tom can tell he would rather snort crushed up glass than address him as such.

“You’ve saved yourself, just for your daddy haven’t you?” He keeps his eyes on all that magnificent green, shakes him head again when he doesn’t answer him.

“Yes … daddy.” He likes to watch those eyes wince, drag away, close in dismay when he drags his finger out. He gets back between the boy’s legs that dangle over the side of the bed. His supplies are hidden underneath, always within reach.

He coats his hands, warms up the lube so that his boy’s ass is as wet as a girl when he slides his finger back inside him. A slow stretch, because he wants that, wants to feel this hot little virgin part for him. He can’t help but taste him again, tongue and fingers fighting to get in deeper, both fighting for more. Especially when the boy’s hips dip along his tongue, hesitantly ride his fingers.

It’s mesmerizing, this little bud of sexuality that denies himself with bitten off moans and strangled whimpers.

Tom’s at it long enough that his fingers start to prune up with spit and lube, he’s never eaten arse like he’s starving for it, like he can’t get enough of it.

“You’ve made daddy a mess, sweet boy.” The boy hiccups on a sob, his knees tightening around Tom’s shoulders, foolishly trying to close legs. Tom fingers his hole again, three this time, slides in as easy as you please into the heart and heat of this boy.

“On your knees, darling.” He slaps a thigh when the boy goes sluggish. He shuffles closer to the post where he’s still handcuffed, on his knees and one elbow.

His hard dick pokes at his flat stomach.

Tom reaches between them, pulls at him until he’s moving his hips with Tom, a simulated fucking that is fruitless.

He hasn’t decided if he’ll let the boy come yet.

“Tell daddy how much you want his cock, how much you want to be stuffed full of it.” His hand drops Harry’s sweet prick after his hips stutter, brought screeching back to reality with Tom’s words. He spreads his large hand over the boy’s concave stomach. Would he be able to feel it from the outside? He wants so desperately in that moment to slide his prick down this boy’s throat, watch the shadow of it between the tight skin of his neck, to see it from the outside.

He can wait, he can be patient, he has time.

“Please.” That won’t do, not at all. He gets between his creamy thighs again, a birthright, a home fire that burns just for him. He pushes his shirt up, up, up, as he leans over Harry, dick finally sliding in all the hot juices he left behind. It feels wonderful, his boy so ready for him. His fingers find those little cherry buds that have been hidden from him so far, fingers pull and twist, until Tom loses control and tosses him around to lay on his back. He puts five points of pressure around a beautiful slim throat, just to see the arch, the panicked flare in those watery green eyes. Moisture leaks around them, sliding past cheeks and temples to soak his dark hair.

Harry’s knees tighten, try to clench shut even though Tom’s already between them. His grip tightens the same. Harry’s legs flail and his arm jerks in his handcuff and the other comes to try to tear his hand away but Tom leans over him, godlike. “When I ask you a question, Harry, I want to hear you, I want to hear every word that comes out of that pretty mouth of yours, do you understand?” He immediately begins nodding, frantic with the need for air, Tom holds, lets those lungs burn.

He croaks out a multitude of yes’s and Tom lets his fingers pulse around that neck, a message that implies that there is nothing that Tom can’t do to this body. That there are always worse things to come.

“Properly this time, Harry.” His pretty, pretty eyes flicker back and forth, a frown when he tries to remember the question and the inevitable flush when he does.

“Please, daddy. I want – your cock, I want – please, to be full of you.” Its something about the reticence, the degradation that makes Tom moan into his mouth. Taking a kiss, savage and thirsty from the boy, the first of many. Finally, finally the boy kisses him back, his mouth as uncertain as his body but then, blossoming, Tempting, this boy can be sweet when wanting, and Tom will hold his prize in his hand tight, he will get everything he can from this body, this boy that doesn’t know how completely owned he is yet.

The slick of him stirs something in Tom, always ready to have something hot and wet underneath him. Excitement, long lost to him, stirs from the ash in his belly, a heat that has been numbed to him, and all the boredom and disdain vanishes as his boy kisses him, presses those red, red lips to his own, then his jaw, his breath a heat that warms his skin. The noises he makes when Tom puts his hand between his legs and takes hold of him, a rough drag of skin so soft, a twist that the boy arches his back to and still those breaths. Tom leans back to watch the boy bite his lips, his hair curling with sweat, his eyes, green fever bright.

“Please, please.” The fire in Harry’s eyes peak, a pitch that seems more ominous than the strength in Toms hands when he lifts thighs to settle in between them, closer, he pulls the boy until he can take his dick in hand, hard to the point of painful and slowly, so slowly, and with eyes glued together he pushes it in to the tight heat of the boy.

Harry’s eyes go wide, until they roll back, Tom pressing in, pushing past all that passive resistance until he can feel the thumping of his heart from the inside. His boy is prepared but Tom feels like it’s a stranglehold, like a choke when he pushes inside, and he can literally feel the boy shrink in his arms. Tom pulls back on a sob to hold Harry’s legs up, pulling out just to push roughly back in, and there it is, in the boy’s stomach, another push in and Tom can see himself through skin and bone, it makes him grind teeth and dick back into the boy, his boy.

Tom pulls at hair, shoulder anything he can reach to pull Harry back on his dick, his legs somewhere above his shoulders, and now the boy sings for him. Those eyes wide with tears and terror, wildness when he’s trapped under him, and still, still his boy is good, takes it.

“Cry for your daddy, such a dirty boy for making daddy like this, aren’t you?” His boy chokes on his sob like he chokes on the prick in his body, and his arms, weak little things try to push him away.

“Please, please no, please.” His dick is soft, sad and tucked up, in fear and pain and that lovely anger that lies just underneath it all and that won’t do. Tom breathes, a rumble of air that slides around his empty lungs and onto the boy below him. He slows his punishing thrusts, grinds when he’d love nothing more than to jackhammer into him.

“No, no, no, no.” A recitation of denials, a slow understanding of the way this is really going to go down. Tom’s hand finds its way around that throat again, not tight, not yet.

“Such a little thing, aren’t you?” The boy fits perfectly underneath him, all elbows and knees, adorable from the tip of a freckled nose to the little toes that curl into this lower back. The boy watches his warily, the tight clutch of his arse like a stranglehold on his dick. “You’re going to be good for Daddy, aren’t you?” The pulse in his neck is rabbit fast, fright and fury in those beautiful green eyes that shine diamond wet up at him. The boy slowly unclenches arse and thighs alike, sinks into the bed on an exhale that ghosts over Tom’s face.

He thrusts back inside this boy, his boy now, first blood and Tom has always been terribly possessive of all his things, especially when they are as pretty as this one.

“I’ll be good, I’ll be good, okay? Okay?” Harry’s thinking with his head again, thinking about the drug that lies just out of his reach in Tom’s sadistic mercy.

“Tell Daddy how good it feels.” Tom leans down to whisper it into his ear, like a lover. Harry turns his head away and Tom leans back just to watch the tear slip from his clenched eyes. Look at that, they have the same cinnamon dusting that his nose does. Tom can’t stop himself and his tongue traces the path of the tear, right into the downward curve of Harry’s mouth. He makes the boy open wide, he runs his tongue alongside this boy’s frightened one, rubs it alongside plump lower lip, gums, the slick enamel of the boy’s teeth.

Whispers right into the mouth he’s just made filthy, “Tell Daddy.”

A sob, a sound he relishes, and it makes a grin stretch over his face, eye teeth and all. He pulls out slowly just to push back in, rocking the boy underneath him and pulling those hips up to shove the few pillows on the bed underneath him, to get that angle that will break Harry wide open.

“It … yes … it feels good.” Such pretty lies from an even prettier mouth, Tom pushes his legs up, knees almost to his ears and grinds into him, pushing past all that resistance to that place where the boy’s body can’t deny him.

Harry’s eyes shoot open on that first graze, a flower that blossoms so prettily under his care. He looks wounded by his own body, betrayed and Tom smiles all the more for it. Another few thrusts and the boy’s dick, flushed and hard, starts to rub against the flat planes of his stomach, a sticky trail that has the boy gasping with each upwards stroke. In and out, in and out, and Tom watches all the emotions flit over his expressive face, feels the his own pull for more, more.

“Please, Daddy, please.” The boy jerks his head back, mouth bitten but the words are already out now. Tom licks his adam’s apple, the sharp cut of his throat and bends this boy in two to suck needy dark bruises into the skin between jaw and collarbone.

Tom can feel the tightness start somewhere in his gut, his dick clenched and unclenched in Harry’s tightness, his ache because Tom is going deeper into this body than anyone has ever, will ever. His fingers tear into the underside of the boy’s knees, pushing them up and wider, fucking into this body now. The bed rattles and shakes, as Harry does beneath him, finally tilting his hips to match Tom’s rhythm, looking for more contact, needy little thing that he is.

Tom stiffens, tries to push his cock through muscle and bone even more, pushing his whole load in his boy, wanting to make him from the inside out.

Harry whimpers, moves his hips to get friction or relief, anything. His loose hand clutches Tom’s shoulder and he can finally feel the imprint of those nails once he’s calmed down.

The boy’s heart beats fast in the hollow of his throat. Tom puts his hand around it, watches Harry’s beautiful eyes finally flicker up to meet his.

“Now, please can I have it now?” His lip trembles and his dick is hard trapped between them but his eyes are watering with desperation, his body wracked with the first signs of withdrawal. Those eyes are almost swallowed by black and the tremors that wrack his body have only just a little to do with getting fucked in half. He’s crashing. Hard.

Tom pulls back, his hand still on Harry’s throat. A smile on his face.

“Hmmm. Maybe next time you’ll be better, won’t you, darling?” He’s always loved the look of desperation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so yes for Daddy!kink. Ain't enough of that good shit.


	9. Breakup Sex

“What… What are you doing here?” Harry tries for tough, but Tom can see the cracks, the fractures that slowly part only for him. Tom stands still, his hands ache to push this flimsy door apart, to show Harry all the strength he bottles up just for him. See, Harry, see how I control myself, just for you. His hands twitch at the rattle of the chain, the protection that Harry thinks he needs, just like the door, just like the blocked floo, the wards, the returned owls.

“I want to talk,” Tom puts on emotions like other people put on clothes, a slip on and off, a reflection. This earnestness is ill fitting and he realizes that Harry has prepared for this when the door starts to close. He fits his foot in quickly, doesn’t allow it.

If he was standing closer, he’d be able to feel that flinch of fear, that body tightening, flight or fight instincts kicking in. If he was standing closer, he’d already have hands on Harry, and it seems that Harry realizes that.

He pulls out his hail mary. 

“Harry, please.” One green eye watches him warily and he puts his hand, slowly, softly on the door frame. A skittish animal, _prey, prey, prey_ , that’s all Tom can think of in the blink of an eye, but he blanks his face and tries sincerity on for size, and underneath is want, always want with Harry. If he could tear it out of himself, he would, not nearly as easy as a soul.

“I love you, please.” An ace up his sleeve, a trick of hand that he widens eyes just for. Is he even capable of love? Isn’t possessiveness a trait, like ownership, or need, or want. Different symptoms of the same disease, and hasn’t it stricken him down? Didn’t Harry do this to him from the start, and then to take away the cure, to remove himself so completely that Tom would shake with anger, with desire so strong that he couldn’t think of anything else, he couldn’t plan and he couldn’t plot, and this boy, his boy would be the only thing that ran through his mind.

He couldn’t leave him, not now, not ever. Harry had made his bed of bones when he had let Tom in that first time, the fiftieth, when he had opened blood and marrow and let Tom into his heart, his head, his own soul.

He had fed him, on love and light, and let him sleep in his warmth and now he was trying to turn him away, force him out into the bitter cold of his loneliness. 

No, no, Tom wouldn’t let him.

“I can’t, please Tom.” There it was, his face and his words and he knew that Harry wouldn’t let him suffer, and can’t you see Harry, can’t you see how I’m suffering? Harry’s hand wraps around the wood of the door between them and Tom slides his hand closer, close enough to feel heat from Harry’s hands, to almost touch. Wait, be patient, and wait, wait and let him open.

“I can’t – Harry, please, let’s work this out. Just talk, that’s all I’m asking.” He doesn’t say, you owe me this, you are the only true barrier between us, this wood and those words, and everything else, they are just defenses, they are just denials built on sand, ready to fall at any minute.

His eyes are still blue, they still shine bright for Harry, and if he holds them open long enough he can feel the tightness, the sheen of tears, purely physical, purely purpose driven, look at me, Harry, look at the pain you’ve wrought.

He watches that lone eye flicker between his own, one second, two, an eternity later he finally hears a sigh, a quiver of air that hits him through the crack in the door. 

“Okay, okay.” Harry’s voice is soft, still unsure as if he’s trying to convince himself, a confirmation of a confirmation.

Tom’s body tightens at the sound of the chain sliding back, and his focus is less on the door than the opening it makes, revealing to him all that is his. Harry, Harry in t-shirt and pajama bottoms, Harry in the clothes he packed up when he left, Harry in clothes that Tom didn’t buy for him. It stirs something hot and heavy in his stomach, this sign of defiance, as small as it is.

Harry seems to flutter once Tom closes the door behind him, nervous and wary, his eyes linger over Tom, still in coat, still in suit. Less than a day for Tom to run him down to Hermione Granger’s flat, less than two days for Tom to wait for him to come back, to realize that Harry was creating a gulf, that he’d have to come collect what was his.

Tom wants to pull the boy to him, taste him and punish him. Correct him, because Harry needed adjusting sometimes, Harry needed a firm hand, Harry needed him.

“Tom,” Harry rounds the couch, and it’s just another sign. He keeps the couch between them, warily eying Tom. Tom stands still, his shoulders tight, his hands determinedly not clenching, he won’t show himself, not this quick. “I think, maybe, maybe we should take some time apart.”

“You think.” Tom blanks his face again, and he worries that the rage in his eyes show, knows that they do when Harry stutters out, “I…I do.”

Granger’s words coming out of his mouth, Tom’s mouth, he had taken it by right of conquest and Harry had succumbed, given it freely to just rip it away.

“You want to leave me.” The skin of this suit, devastation fits just fine, it’s a mirror image of the ice that runs through Tom’s veins in that moment. He glances down, shock and hurt, he feels the ghost of these emotions, he mangles his face to show them when all he really wants to do is bare his teeth, taste blood and grit, copper and salt, he wants Harry’s throat between his teeth, under his boot, owned and owned.

He breathes, looks up just in time to see the hesitation that crosses Harry. His boy, and his heart sleeves, as easy to read as a first year.

“Are you going to leave me?” His voice breaks and isn’t that what Harry wants to hear, his agony? He turns away watching the wall, the clock, this tacky little apartment full of tacky little things. Harry couldn’t be happy here; Harry couldn’t ever be happy without him. He lets his hands clench now, but he wraps them around himself and he’s never been small, he’s towering and broad and he’s worked hard to be that way, to never be little or managed again. Another skin, another hook that catches Harry as quick as fish in a stream. Because his boy comes forward quickly, small warm hands on his back, rubbing and trying to reach for his turned away face.

“Tom please, I just need some time, I just – we’re moving so quickly.” His vein of steel flares into existence. “Too quickly.” He stays close to him, his light little bird, his beauty and his poison both ready to destroy Tom. “I … I don’t want to leave you.” He says it too quietly, murmurs when he needs to shout it from the rooftops.

“It feels right, Harry. I’m not the only one, I know you feel it to.” Tom captures those little wrists in his hands, wraps fingers all the way around and Harry has to look up at him, those big beautiful eyes, green and lovely, stormy and open. Tom feels himself tripping into them, the honey lies that coat his tongue dry up. He lets go of wrists to wrap his hands around Harry’s head, into the wild hair, a cradle that is only truthful in its tenderness. He couldn’t hurt this boy, as much as he wants to break and own and damage. The possessive bite of his ownership sits in his teeth, ever waiting.

Harry’s eyelashes flutter, a quick movement but with it a tear drops, traces the curve of his cheek and slips into his open mouth and Tom wants so desperately to taste the salt on his lips.

Harry doesn’t stop him. He slips slowly into that mouth, tears his kiss out like bricks mortared with Harry’s resistance. Let me in, let me in and keep me.

Harry’s hands dig into Tom’s shoulders, blunt little nails that Tom wishes he could feel on his bare skin, wants to wear Harry’s marks just as much as he wants to mark Harry, his name on Harry’s skin in anyway. His tongue glides along Harry’s, tasting wine and his emotional struggle, he can taste the reticence on his lips, and he wants to kiss it all away, soak it into himself. 

His words slip into Harry’s mouth, a plea that is the most honest thing he’s ever told this boy.

“Don’t, don’t.” His brow furrows, and this skin feels too tight, too painful, a shade too close to something that might actually be, underneath it all.

Harry stands on tip toes, eyes on his own, and can this boy read him? Is he able to see everything that is buried six feet below the surface, can’t you see, Harry? Will you?

Harry eyes soften, and Tom wants to reach inside him, to feel the pulse of his heart, the beat of it, he wants to feel the warmth that Harry has for him. He tips his head, brushes his lips against his boy’s again and looks Harry in the eyes, waiting, waiting.

He puts hands underneath thighs, hitching Harry closer to him, lifting him off the floor and Harry wraps those legs around him, clinging to him. Don’t ever let me go, don’t ever release me.

They land somewhere on Granger’s couch, Harry’s pants already halfway down his thighs and Tom’s gapped open. Tom wraps a hand around his head again, reaching up to kiss him, holding him tight while Harry reaches down and between them.

Tom has to let go of that mouth to wet his fingers, slipping his own in his mouth, then Harry’s. He reaches deep, two fingers that go farther than a gag reflex, his good boy relaxes his mouth and throat and gets them soppy wet.

It felt like two years instead of two days when he gets back inside his boy, fingers stretching, his prick hot and heavy on his thigh, ready, _ready_. It’s not enough, he won’t hurt him like that and in the span of one gasp to another, he jerks his wand forward from his wrist holster to help make his boy soaking wet. He gets his fingers back inside that scorching heat instantaneously, can’t keep out of him.

Harry finally takes him in hand, eyes on each other when he slides down, his neck jerking back, hissing out at the burn, but still he slides all the way down and Tom can only hold himself for a second, a moment before a beast is torn out of him.

This fucking feels primal, ritualistic, like building a fire. Tom has always burned, always felt heat and flame and destruction but this, this takes and takes, when he thought Harry had taken everything already from him. 

Harry wraps arms and legs around him, and Tom bounces him on his prick, his hands grabbing at all that golden skin, and oh, how he wants to leave marks, he wants bruises and pain and validation. Look at what I can do to you, look at what I do to you. He sets his mouth on Harry’s neck, his shoulders, the frail skin there turns bruise purple under his teeth, tongue. Look at how my love looks on you, look how you carry me so well.

Harry sobs, and Tom watches a tear, one, two, a track that he wants to trace with his tongue. Cry for me, little bird. He watches those wild, wet eyes and he knows his own face must be savage, must be manic when Harry flinches away when he moves to his mouth. He puts his hand around his neck, and didn’t that feel right, couldn’t Harry feel that mark of ownership on his very DNA?

“Tell me you love me.” Harry gasps out, jerking up and down, eyes half lidden so that Tom can only see a sliver of green, a black that almost engulfs them whole. And didn’t Tom feel like that, engulfed by Harry, by his love and his need? He whispers it into Harry’s mouth, red bitten and open wet, licks his words into it.

Harry jerks up and down, one hand atop Tom’s around his throat and the other pulling at himself, rosy red and hard. Tom’s been holding himself, tight and tightly, ready to follow his boy into wherever he leads him. Harry shakes above him, eyes opening wide so that when he comes its looking right into Tom’s eyes, he grinds his hips down, taking Tom deeper, and that last stroke, tip to root undoes him, the clench of his heat, pulsing to kiss Tom from the inside.

Harry’s eyes, like an endless ocean, like the sea and the storm, unmake him.

Harry breathes hard into his face, kisses one side of his mouth, then the other, the tip of his nose, his forehead, love leaking from his mouth to drown Tom, one kiss at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little ... off to me. I was in two completely different moods from beginning to end. 
> 
> But brought to you by the gratuitous listening of Billie Eillish's ocean eyes. Oh, my heart.


	10. Jealousy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags // forced marriage, implied/referenced domestic abuse, non-con, not dealing with jealousy issues in any kind of healthy way

They apparate back to the manor immediately after the Peace Gala. Silent and dreadful. Even sucked into the vacuum of space where noise and distortion surround him on all sides is more comfortable than the distance that is between him and Tom.

Tom lets go of his wrist as soon as they appear inside the foyer of his family home, a look on his face akin to revulsion, close enough to anger and disgust that Harry visibly flinches, sinks into himself. He wants to apologize, bend and scrap but this isn’t five years ago, or even three. His spine has had time to straighten since then, his own anger and temper have sharpened to match his husband’s.

The flinch turns into a sharp smirk, laughter in his own head. _Husband_. Tonight, the very word sends fury shivering down his veins, a choice taken, all his possibilities extinguished with two words.

All for this pitiful excuse for peace. Harry won’t feel one more minute of what if’s, won’t allow himself to slide down that slippery slope of his own shortcomings, his own conditioning. He’s had enough for the night. He sends a scathing look out of the corner of his eye, a snarl almost on his lips when he thinks _how dare you, how dare you after everything **you’ve** done._ He starts only to be stopped by some invisible force, between one foot lifting and the other he’s been stuck into place. The burn of embarrassment takes him over, a flush of red that deepens the olive of his skin, and he can feel his own magic blister in response, subjugated to _his_ will.

“We agreed.” Harry bites out. He hates him, _hates_ him so much. Hates him and loves him in equal measures and it fucks him up, good and proper, see sawing between the two. He’s Tom Riddle’s own personal entertainment, watch him dance, watch him grovel, watch him plead and watch him bleed. His anger ratchets up, flies out and the lamps that dot the entrance flicker, the glass of their front doors shake, vibrate with Harry’s energy.

“Oh, dear sweet husband.” Harry growls under his breath, swings his head to watch Tom come around him, the long elder wand sliding between his fingers like a boy doing a parlor trick. Tom doesn’t lift his head until he’s a breath away, his red eyes shining bright, manic and eager in the face of Harry’s rage. “There are terms to your conditions that you signed with blood and honor, my little Gryffindor.” A flick of a wrist and Harry is sent flying toward the wall, battering it with shoulder until Tom’s magic forces his back flat, sends him up until his toes barely graze the hardwood.

“And there are repercussions for breaking those terms.” His resentment dies a little with this casual flex of magic and might, anger fades and panic takes its place. But even the panic is a wild, ugly thing, starved and voracious. It feels good, to let this live and thrive, when he’s been good for so long. Good by Tom’s standards means obedient, unquestioning, open. It means do as I say and keep you legs open, it means _I own you_ , in every sense.

The contract of course doesn’t say that, the contract that he signed, that Tom signed, that Dumbledore sealed with blood magic himself.

In perpetuity.

And for a monster like Tom Riddle (dearly dead departed Voldemort) that meant forever. That Harry make his own horcrux was in section 758, article 85, subsection 22. His trust in Dumbledore had never been restored after that came to light (when he was still bruised and sticky the morning after their supposed wedding night, when a man had been put in front of him, crying and pleading and Tom _Voldemort_ had said, kill or I will burn the heart of everyone you love, and Harry’s hand had shaken with disgust and with his own violation, his own guilt and the death of his innocence had been completely wiped from him in the green light. _He had meant it._ ) and then his once mentor had died too soon after that, hands wiped clean and happy with the way he had left this miserable world. Happy to leave Harry with this man became monster became man. It could always be worse, Harry, it could be death.

Death was a kindness that was not extended to Harry Potter. 

“I’ve broken no terms.” He tilts his jaw up, looks underneath his eyelashes at the man now beneath him. “Unlike you, no magical force unless antagonized, no might unless provoked.” Of course, Tom would have put those clauses in. He was more beast than man most days, the anger that lived in his bloodstream never far from his fists or his words. 

Tom lifts a hand, closes it into a fist and pulls down, letting Harry finally touch the floor with his feet. Tom towers over him now, just how he likes, strong and intimidating. Harry barely reaches his shoulders, and Tom has at least six stones on him. Fragile, that’s what he had whispered into his ear over the table with the contract, Dumbledore’s blue eyes flickering between them and the parchment. _Fragile, but powerful, broken, but strong, aren’t you a contradiction, my soul._

“I’ve been antagonized. I’ve been provoked.” Tom leans close and Harry turns away from the mouth that lingers close to his cheek, his eye, the mark that he’s obsessed with. Hot breath on his scar, a knee jerk reaction after all these years and his belly flares hot with arousal, unwanted. He jerks his head back, as little as he can, and the pictures on the wall shake when his head collides with it. He’d rather split his gourd in two than be that close to him.

“Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.” Harry watches that sharp jaw tighten, the click of his anger. Tom’s hands slap onto the wall behind him and Harry looks up, disbelief and incredulity streaming out of his wide eyes. “You’re jealous.”

“Shouldn’t I be? The whore, isn’t that what they call you, sweetheart?” The sound of glass cracking invades the quiet between them and Harry looks up at this man, this _monster_.

“You bastard, you fucking sadistic piece of shit! That’s because of you! That’s because you spread my legs and made me your fucking whore!” The heat on his face burns and the lights extinguish with his own magical might. Harry gasps, a tremble of breath. When would he learn. He watches those eyes practically _glow_ in the dark, when would he stop falling into these traps that Tom set up just for him.

“Oh, Harry.” A hand on his face that turns into a grip on his throat. Tight, choking and pushing his head into the wall behind him, harder and harder until the plaster cracks around his ears. Tom leans down close to him, gets into his face and Harry knows there’s no blood on his lips, none that drip from his white, white teeth but he can swear he smells it, smells the copper and the destruction and the thick black magic that wraps itself around Tom as reaches out to feast on the fear that seems to envelop Harry, snuffing out whatever anger there was.

“We’ve talked about this.” A shake that rattles Harry’s bones, his shoulder blades dig into the wall behind him and the precious little air that he wheezes in and out chokes him. “Ad fucking nauseum.” Tom’s grip pulses and Harry panics, claws at the hand that holds him until it lifts, and then he kicks, terrified.

Tom clicks his tongue in reproach, barely heard over the rushing of blood in his ears. A flick of his wrist and Harry is thrown to the floor, scrambling to get away. He coughs harshly, barely wants to touch his throat to try to ease the heat that comes from his near strangulation.

“Don’t think about running.” Harry feels Tom’s magic reach out and the lights flare back to life. He swallows down his fight or flight instinct savagely, and the anxiety that almost blacks his vision from the memories that sneak up on him from time to time. He breathes hard, panting and looks at the floor.

“No, I’ve learned that lesson.” Tom wouldn’t heal the broken bones with magic and he wouldn’t let Harry see the light for weeks, touch starved and just plain starved and Harry had thought, with pride and bull headedness that he’d be able to withstand whatever was thrown at him, regardless of blood magic, regardless of the words that were written on his very soul.

He’d never been more wrong in his life.

“Go to the dining room, I need a drink.” Harry swallows convulsively, the dark shadows that seem to grow in the corners of _his_ house reach for him, wanting to caress the shivering he can’t stop. He watches Tom light a cigarette out of the corner of his eyes. His heart beats a mad rhythm, stuttering and hard, almost like his heart is trying to escape his chest. It’s the panic, it’s the panic. He breathes, trembling and scurries to the dining room.

He doesn’t really trust himself to pick up the cut crystal, but nevertheless he pours a generous serving for them both, taking Tom’s and sitting it on the table. He worries about being more incapacitated, he’d had champagne earlier, but the tremor in his hand decides for him. His nerves need it. 

He gulps it down, fire and warmth licking a straight line down to his belly. He watches the moonlight beam in through the windows, painting the room in its eerie glow. The table, huge and monstrous, takes up much of the room and Harry edges away from it, keeps his back close to the wall.

This waiting is an old game for them. The anticipation of punishment rushes through his veins, makes him chew on his lip until he can taste the copper from the split. Tom likes to use this room. He likes to keep Harry in here with the ghosts. Every other room in the house had been redone, gone were the antiquated style of his dead muggle family, there were new carpets and sofas and frames. Everything had Tom’s fingerprints on it except this room. The grandfather clock and the dark, heavy drapes forever frozen in time.

It was a trophy, an earmarked page in Tom Riddle’s history, kept in all it’s glory so that Tom might be able to revisit it at any time. The clock ticks, back and forth, and Harry watches the movement, transfixed. Tom’s shoes match the rhythm, after minutes, and Harry tightens up all over. His eyes swing to the door when Tom finally graces him with his presence.

Tom goes for the drink immediately, the smell of nicotine and ash overpowering so close to Harry. His red, red eyes stay on Harry and Harry can’t stand looking at him, can’t stand the thought of this façade anymore tonight so he looks out the open windows, out the manicured lawn lit up with lamps. He isn’t allowed to leave his presence, another lesson learned the hard way, but he does turn his back to him. He tracks the movements of Nagini, that must have been what he was doing, she loved to hunt at night and the tree line that surrounds their property is excellent at honing her skills.

A warmth emanates from behind him, Tom’s excessive heat. They stand close enough that Harry wants to fidget away, close enough that it feels like looming. He tries to look out of the corner of his eye, to see how the predator looks once its prey is in its clutches. He won’t turn around. He can’t give any more inches tonight.

“I saw you with him.” Whatever he had given up for this peaceful existence, that still hurt the worse. He swallows, still can taste the whiskey in his mouth, hot and strong. He wants another drink.

“I didn’t do anything. I know better.” He says sardonically, turns to cut eyes at the man behind him because he can’t help it. This resentment. Tom had everything, his body, his mind, his soul. Even the thoughts that flitted in, quick as lightening, now were tinged with guilt. He couldn’t think about anyone but his so-called husband, even if the magic would allow it, he’d been with him too long. They had breathed and lived and ached together. Time had created gouges in them that only the other could fill, a terrible irony and not at all surprising that he had learned to love the one person he had always thought he would hate.

He wanted to keep that hate; he wanted the drive and the hurt that came with it. But it slipped from his fingers, like sand, eroded with the tides of the sea.

“You still love him. I know you, sweetheart. I’ve seen every shade in those pretty eyes, I know what want looks like.” Tom noses at his ear, kisses the lobe, gently, gently. He slips Harry’s jacket down his arms, and this is familiar, this is rote. Tom has never not wanted his body, never could see the tender slope of a shoulder or the delicate skin of collarbone and not intend to have him. Harry’s nerveless fingers undo the delicate pearl buttons of his shirt, his eyes still on the lawn.

He _had_ wanted. But what did it matter? What did it matter now? That life was buried, along with friendships and lovers and careers and children. Those days are gone. He had accepted that, he had sworn on magic and blood that he would forsake all others for the man behind him. No matter how one-sided their fidelity was. He was above all things, Tom’s, and chattel like him didn’t get much of a say when their neck was on the line, not when the weight of peace was on their back.

Of course, he conceded. Of course.

But tonight. Tonight, he had caught eyes with the man from another life over a crowded room and knew that whatever happened next would mean trouble. Trouble for himself, trouble, _trouble_. And now trouble was here.

“What do you want me to say? I’m sorry, I _am_ sorry. I’ve made a vow to you, I’ve sacrificed everything I’ve held dear for you. Why is that not enough?” His hand clenches, fruitless anger and it’s not a moment later that Tom spins him around, grabbing hold of him tight and pushing him toward the glass of the window. He leans down, his eyes flickering back and forth between Harry’s own. 

“It will never be enough.” He hisses, as angry sounding as ever, and he strikes in that moment, pulling Harry toward him close enough that his toes touch the floor and sealing his mouth on Harry’s. It’s like being mauled by a tiger, taken and taken. Harry’s arms wrap around broad shoulders, pull just as tight. Whatever was before, whoever was before, never could make him feel this way, god damn Tom, god damn him for that. 

Tom puts his hands under his thighs and a mighty heave later they wrap around a trim waist. They spin again and Tom knocks chairs down and over, and Harry lands harshly on the table. He breathes hard, breaks away and Tom’s mouth attaches itself to his neck, his hands between them ripping cloth and zipper alike.

He doesn’t use his magic to strip him, just like he doesn’t use his magic to prepare him. He wants his hands on Harry, always. Another lesson, this one more pleasurable than many others. Harry moans, long and drawn out when Tom kisses his neck, licking in the juncture between neck and collarbone, a spot that has Harry’s toes curling in pleasure. He leans his head back, more access, unmade as always by Tom’s mouth.

Tom bucks up against him, that hard, rigid line of prick rubbing against him. It’s in moments like this, when there is a break in the pleasure, that the cloud lifts momentarily enough for a moment of clarity, of understanding. A heartbeat. He hates himself for fucking his parent’s murdered. A heartbeat. He hates himself for spreading his legs for this manic power-hungry tyrant. A heartbeat. He hates himself for giving him so much of himself, too much, everything.

Tom throws the pants somewhere behind them and turns Harry around, whiplash until he puts a warm hand between his shoulder blades to push his chest on the cold lacquered table. His breath huffs out, hot, steaming up the surface underneath him. His hands can’t get a grip and Tom is already between his legs, shoes kicking his bare ankles wider.

“I’ll kill him myself.” Harry makes an aborted movement, something to tamper this anger, but Tom keeps his hand heavy, sticks his finger into Harry, practically dry and Harry stops trying to move altogether. He knows better than to beg for anyone’s life. Tom leans over his back, his weight familiar, terrifying. His finger pops out of Harry and the grunt that leaves him is entirely involuntary. Tom pushes him further on the table before Harry can hear him spit into the hand that left him.

The panic that lives in his belly flares up, an old feeling, tonight that’s all he’d be getting.

Wet finger this time, a rough finger fuck that exercises the control that Tom has over him, more spit and Harry zones out as his body is pushed up and down, his prick already softening. He’s going into that space only for him, that space from the cupboard, from those spineless days. 

He’s not in deep enough to stop the pain from reaching his nerves when Tom pushes in, not enough prep by far. The pain aches and radiates from where they are joined, and Harry knows for a fact that tensing up will only make this worse. He does everything in his power to relax his body, to take it, if he can take it, if he can be good it won’t last long. His body has held no secrets from Tom for many years, and this isn’t the worst that’s ever happened to him.

Tom thrusts in, slow, controlled, he’s not mad with it yet but his mouth leans down to bite at any part of Harry he can. Sharp nips that have Harry jerking away, whether he wants to or not. He doesn’t break skin, but they’ll be bruises, his body marked up, worked over. Tom’s name will be all over him, for anyone to see.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until his face slides through the pool his tears leave on the table. Another life on his tally sheet? Another abuse? Years spin ahead of him, by this man’s side and it leaves his empty, cold. Is this it? 

Is this it?

Tom finishes inside him, fingers digging bruise tight into his hips, his thighs. He feels mangled, tied up in knots from this evening ( _this life_ ).

“Harry, Harry.” The words are a whisper in his ear, a hiss of breath that seeps into his blood. This emotional exhaustion takes its toll and he lets Tom manhandle him upright, rubbing his hips where the table cut in.

“You are so pretty when you cry.” Tom licks his face, tasting his pain and contempt and devastation. It’s his favorite meal and he doesn’t seem to ever tire of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom, always : But, honey, I'll be seeing you down every road.


	11. Resurrection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags // underage, gratuitously beautiful Voldemort, mild gore

…the beam of red light strikes out of the wand that Peter Pettigrew holds. It sizzles the air, the sharp smell of magic permeating. It connects and Cedric stiffens, a hard line and his body falls harshly to the ground.

Harri pulls against the bonds that hold her. She feels no give in the stone and she thinks, _fight it Cedric, fight it, please, fight, fight_. The thoughts are beyond hysterical, it’s a frenzy of her own ineptitude. She shakes and shivers all over, unable to free herself, unable to lift the curse that keeps Cedric’s body locked on the ground, frozen in flight.

His head had landed so that she was in his vision. Would she be the last thing that he saw? She gasps around the gag, filthy Wormtail, traitor, _traitor_. She swings her head around to keep the lump of a man in her sight. She growls, and it feels good to let the rage extend, to not keep quiet for this. He steps to a large cauldron, steaming with a licking fire beneath it, close enough that Harry starts to sweat from the heat.

The massive snake that she had seen so long-ago slithers underfoot making Wormtail jerk away when she gets close to him. She slinks around him, to the bundle in his arms, whatever new horror that awaits Harry.

The bundle hisses and she hisses back and Harry understands. They speak for a moment in their language, in _her_ language.

The words stay trapped behind the disgusting cloth but Harry begins to shake her head back and forth, it can’t be. It isn’t possible. But it can be, it is possible. Magic works in all ways.

The thing, and it can only be described as a thing, small and weak and pale and monstrous. Harry thrashes harder, the pain in her scar sliding into unbearable at the sight of the creature. She squeezes her eyes shut, and barely hears the splash it makes into the cauldron.

 **”Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will revive.”** Her eyes fly open when the ground beneath her shifts violently and she hopes the stone cracks enough to set her free, but she remains as bound and tethered as before, even as the dust of Tom Riddle’s dead father rises to meet her.

 **”Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will restore.”** Wormtail’s voice is an octave lower, surer than she had heard last year in the shrieking shack. They’re close enough that the spray of blood hits her face. She flinches away from it, too late, and then another splash in the cauldron. She breathes hard into the gag that wraps around her head, trying to break her wrists to get away as he turns toward her.

She can’t help but watch the blood, drip, drip, drip across the short distance as he walks closer to her. He doesn’t seem to care that his hand’s bubbling away, just another ingredient to this twisted potion.

He runs his knife close to her face and she stiffens on her tiptoes. Her heart is a thundering hammer in her chest, beats that make breathing impossible, but she manages to keep still and sane. Wormtail smiles at her, crooked yellow teeth like a nightmare, she can smell him, a reek that permeates the small space between them.

He puts the nub of his hand on her shoulder, close enough that when her eyes flicker panic rapid to the mutilation she can see the white of his bones, smell nothing but copper and dark magic clinging to him. The knife that drips with his bloods taps the crook of her outstretched arm. Hot panic floods her body, and she jerks to escape, a fruitless endeavor, and it makes him laugh at her fright, loud in the quiet of the moonless night. This isn’t happening, she repeats, over and over, until the white buzz in her ears quiets with his voice.

 **”Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will renew.”** The knife slices into her arm, elbow to wrist, a deep enough scratch that her torn shirt catches the rivulets of blood, soaking the cotton of her uniform. His smile widens, an unsettling grin directly solely at her weeping arm. He tosses the knife back toward Cedric. It lands in the grass beside him and she can see his eyes flicker, her to the knife, then back again. His body remains still.

Harry whimpers when he pulls a vial from within his robes, gathering up her blood. She watches, terrified. There are worse things in the night to come. She turns away from the cut brushing her face against his exposed flesh. She gags around the material in her mouth and he giggles at her, amused.

A slow gush of blood coats her shoulder and she can feel the heat of his amputated flesh, she tosses her head back, a cry caught in her throat. _Please get away from me, please die from it, get away, get away._ He seems to enjoy tormenting her but the snake comes closer, winding it’s way around the tombstone and making him jerk away.

She won’t feel grateful.

He takes her blood to the great bubbling cauldron, and pours the whole of it in.

The light starts to pulse, great white beams that rise up to the night, it illuminates the graveyard and its so blinding that Harry turns her head away from it, catching Cedric’s helpless eyes. They wait together.

The light dies down finally and then a voice, _her_ voice, cold and high, the voice that had haunted Harry’s dreams and nightmares, her days and nights both. The voice that commands her servant to robe her.

She’s back. She’s back.

Harry freezes but she uses every ounce of her will to drag her eyes back. Her. Voldemort moves onto the soil of the graveyard, her pale feet stepping back onto the earth. Her skin shines waxen, a dull light that is abnormal. Harry flushes at her nudity, can’t avert her eyes away like Wormtail, who looks at the ground as he hands his master her silk robes. Her hair halos around her head, as black as oil in the night, curled like snakes around her head.

She isn’t the Tom Riddle from the diary, she isn’t that gorgeous girl that slipped into Harry’s mind like smoke. This is Voldemort.

She’s terrifying and beautiful, her face sharpened, her cheekbones like knives cut into her skull. Her lips are as red as the blood that rolls lazily out of Harry’s arm. Frighteningly, her eyes are the same vibrant hue. They glow, alive, and fix on her. Those same lips widen, revealing bright white teeth, a cruel smile just for Harry.

“You’ve done very well, Wormtail.” She purrs as he produces her wand and cradling it with one arm presents it to her. She takes it with a benevolent smile, her eyes finally leaving Harry to look at her servant.

“Tie the boy down, he’ll recover soon.” She waves her wand and suddenly Harry is free, she immediately springs toward Cedric, if she can get back to the cup, if she can somehow. It doesn’t matter, Voldemort has her frozen again, her body lifted up and over Cedric as they swap places.

Her eyes swivel around and she can’t see Cedric anymore. Voldemort fills her vision. She’s ethereal this close up, her beauty more frightening with inches between them. She raises her long pale hand, the beds of her nails smoky and dark, like death. She smooths the wildness of Harry’s short hair away from her head, trails her fingers over the scar she had given her. Over the first curse.

“I’ll prepare you myself.” Another twist of her wand and this time the clothes melt off her body and she’s bare. Her body goes hot all over, rage directed at the woman in front of her. Voldemort slides her hand down the rest of her face, tight from Wormtail’s blood, she tsks at that, until finally slides the gag from around her mouth.

Harry looks up at her, can’t breathe in fear, but she manages to slide her eyes around, trying to catch a glimpse of Cedric.

She licks dry lips. “Don’t hurt him.” She won’t beg, not yet, but it’s a close thing.

“He’s to bare witness.” Her smile is mean, too many teeth to be genuine and Harry chokes on a cry as she is lifted up by her magic, just to be tossed into the cauldron that still bubbles.

“Bathed by my resurrection.” Voldemort intones above her before she falls into the murky potion. Voldemort’s magic is relentless, and it pushes her down. The cauldron isn’t a cauldron, not in the dark deepness of this pit. It’s like an endless sea, and Harry falls into the waves that come from nowhere, the icy depths of hell that Voldemort drug herself from. The liquid is viscous and it clings to Harry’s nakedness, in all the places that were clean before being plunged into this rebirth.

Voldemort finally allows her to break the surface and she takes greedy gulps of air. The night has chilled around them, from this dark magic, and Harry shakes in the cauldron, her stiff hands grip the sides. She never wants to go back down there again.

Voldemort leans down beside her, and Harry warily waits for the serpent to strike again. The woman runs her fingers down her face, pushing back the wet hair and rubbing the blood that was on her away. Washing her. Harry wants to jerk away from her, like an animal, but the fear of the darkness beneath her keeps her hands gripped tight.

Voldemort cups the liquid and soothes it over the cut on her arm. Harry can feel the skin knitting itself back together and the aches that had littered her from the maze, from before soften, fade into nothing in Voldemort’s essence. Harry’s brow bends watching those skeletal hands smooth over her body in tenderness. She bites her lip, clutches the rim of the cauldron tighter, and drags her eyes back up to the fathomless depths of Voldemort’s.

“It’s strange isn’t it, Harry? How this heals you.” She nods, to herself, her eyes on Harry’s scar, always her scar and then always her eyes. Voldemort moves her hand from her head to run the pad of her thumb over her mark, and Harry curls into herself at the shiver that runs through Voldemort at the touch.

“Why?” Harry manages to croak out. Voldemort smiles, hateful and enigmatic, her wand twirling so that Harry rises from the cauldron back into the air that pebbles her naked skin, she feels embarrassed. Voldemort’s the first person to see her like this, without the dignity of clothes or choice. Her body warms in a second and she lands on bare feet in the soft, cold grass of the graveyard.

Voldemort, herself, clothes her. The same silk robes, as dark as the night that surrounds them. Witching hour.

Voldemort looks down at her, as statuesque as Tom Riddle ever was. The girl died to give birth to this hateful woman, this cold creature. Harry, even in her fright, clutches fists and swallows the trembling of her anger. She flicks her eyes to Cedric, tied and gagged, as effectively dealt with as Harry was in the moments she landed in this cursed place.

Voldemort puts her hand on her again, a tight grip around her jaw, turning her so that she must look up into her devil eyes. “I suspect it’s the same reason why you can speak my language, little Harry Potter, I suspect that night long ago we shared more than just a curse.” Her eyes widen, confused, but Voldemort hasn’t the time, she’s already grabbing her by her upper arm, dragging her behind the space her long legs eat up.

“Wormtail, it’s time.” He straightens his arm, her mark darkly violent. She touches her wand to it, the tip glowing as his mark pulses. His breath becomes jagged and Harry tries to back away from the blood that still drips to the ground from his arm. She cringes away, not able to take more than one step back.

In seconds, there are whistles through the air, figures that form from black smoke become tangible in the night. Harry watches, her eyes on one, two, ten, fifteen. They crowd around their newly formed Lord, respectful and wary. The masks cover their faces, but Harry can see it, the hunger in their eyes at the beauty and power of this woman.

“My Lord.” They whisper at her, awed. One drops to his feet, crawls forward to kiss the hem of her robes, soon they all land on their knees, placating. Harry wants to step back but the grip on her arm tightens, turns painful. She struggles only when they reach forward, making her push close so that she can feel the coldness of Voldemort’s body.

“My faithful ones, arise. Arise and see what Magic herself has brought back.” She pulls Harry close to her again, her head turning to look at each and everyone of her followers, each dark hood and each intricate mask. She flicks her wrist and their shrouds fall away, slip into the same dark smoke that brought them here.

Harry looks at each one, each face a memory she wants to tattoo on her brain, these disgusting sycophants, these vile excuses for witches and wizards. Voldemort looks too, and their eyes flicker between them, the ground, back up, hope and fear warring on their faces.

Will they be forgiven? Worse, will they be punished?

“Thirteen years. Nothing more than a wraith, clutching to life like a parasite. I can see now, ego and avarice. Single mindedness.” Her wild eyes swing around, and she stands tall and proud now. Her magic reaches out, dark lovely tendrils that cling to the ring around her, moans and praises are whispered in the air. Harry watches Voldemort’s smile widen, darken as she seems to get bigger, more dangerous.

“I am wraith no more. My magic is ravenous for this new world and –” She looks at Harry now, at the panicked heartbeat that sits in the hollow of her throat, in the tight roundness of her shoulders, with fire in her eyes. “Death will not touch me now.”

She flicks her wrist and her bootlickers quickly fan out around them, even Nagini slithers further out. Her tongue flicking out to touch the heavy magic in the air.

Voldemort turns toward her, places both hands on her face and Harry immediately struggles against her hold until she looks up into her fever bright eyes, hunger shining down to beam on her. Something in her belly slinks and slithers, like the snake around them. It’s heady and disgusting and Harry lifts her hand to cover Voldemort’s own, until she feels them ripped back to place at her side, her body a line that only Voldemort can control.

Voldemort leans her head close, and Harry cringes against her. The warmth of her lips is a surprise, and it feels so damningly maternal when she slides her mouth over the lightening bolt that had forever marked Harry as hers. A soft kiss that makes Harry let out a sob uncontrollably. She doesn’t even have a memory of her mother doing this because of this monster. The anger chases the pain, as it always does and she feels her own magic reach out, pushing against Voldemort’s. She’s able to break away, another sob shattering the sound of silence. She brings her cold hands immediately to her forehead, trying to scrub away the feel of her.

“Harry.” Voldemort’s hands on her again, when her own mothers were rotting in the ground. She could feel the bile in the back of her throat, the festering rebirth of her own hatred. Voldemort’s hands were like bands of steel around her upper arms, catching her and keeping her. She looks down at Harry, and the tears that had gathered finally beak through their stronghold. Voldemort watches, detached, at the sign of emotion and Harry only feels anger. She hisses through her teeth, her arms twitching in their kept position.

“Get on with it then, kill me.” She doesn’t realize it’s their language she speaks, crooning it like a song on Voldemort’s perfect ears. Voldemort smiles down at her, full teeth.

“Death will never touch you too, Harry Potter.” This time she leans down and captures Harry’s mouth with her own. It’s such a trivial thing, when Voldemort has taken so much from her, parents and a home and peace and a life. Now, her first kiss as well.

She’s so shocked by it that she doesn’t immediately understand the gentle press of lips to her own. She only feels those hateful hands creep tenderly up to cradle her head, turning it upwards toward Voldemort. Those same hands, whose thumbs rub a soothing circle on her cheeks, keep her head still and close as she presses soft kisses to her trembling lips.

In the seconds that slip fog like through time, beams of light wrap around them. Entwining them and twisting around each other, like chains, like tethers. Harry tries to jerk back, with Voldemort’s taste still on her lips, but pain rips through her starting with her scar and traveling through all the veins that travel across her body. Its torture and she stands it only for a second or two before falling back into the warm body of her tormentor.

“What have you done? What did you do to me?” Harry cries as the light blinds them, as it starts to burn her skin. It feels binding, as if her molecules have vibrated out of her skin to fuse with the woman that stands beside her.

In the end, that’s answer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort: No grave can hold my body down, I'll crawl home to her
> 
> Why yes, I did listen to Work Song over and over, how did you know?


	12. Blindfold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags // past referenced non-con, past referenced kidnapping, past referenced violence, off screen murder, underage, serial killer Tom.

It’s been years since Harry Potter. 

The blossom of time has magnified him, a gentle nursing of vitality that has changed this boy into a man. But Tom Riddle would remember those eyes forever.

He would always remember _his_ boy.

Harry, still so achingly thin, still a shy thing, seemingly more gorgeous now than he was at fourteen. Tom had always had a certain predilection for things both small and pretty. Harry had been that and more, a peak to which all others would fail to rise, and it had cost them dearly. In the end, always the end, Tom had placed his large hands around their very lovely throats and tasted the sweet scared breath that had been their last.

Harry had been the only one that he had let go.

Something about his boy, his broken lily, shy and sweet and bruised up before Tom could push his fingers in, see his love on little Harry Potter. From babe to boy to man, Harry would always wear him best.

He taps his fingers (the same ones that have born and buried) on the wood top of the little table. Harry, in button down white, glances at him and hurries across the small outside area of the café. He doesn’t recognize Tom, but he knew he wouldn’t. Unlike the others, Tom hadn’t used his magic, deadly and dark on the boy, he had taken cloth, blinding those beautiful eyes from the world, at least from him.

Oh, but Tom had looked his fill. The boy, his boy, stripped down to his barest, his most feral, his most gentle. Tom had got down to the sweet quick of him, past muscle and nerves, to the thumping beat of his heart.

He pushes his coffee cup to the edge of the table, watches Harry cut eyes quickly to the emptiness within. Tom goes back to pretending to read his paperback, tortoise rimmed frames and a full beard. A wolf in sheep’s clothes, a blank face for anyone that looked.

That same bashful blush covers his boy’s face, a bitten lip. Didn’t he look just the same as ten years ago, didn’t he still smell just as sweetly as he moves closer to the table to let someone go by.

“I quite liked that one.” Like angels harmonizing, that voice. He can’t believe he’s let the years fly by him, to deprive himself of such melody. He finally looks his fill, at Harry Potter, age 24, full time student, part time server. He couldn’t stand to go back home, relations strained with a too concerned mother, heartbroken father (PTSD, survivor’s guilt - call it what you like but their firm belief that they were untouchable, behind wards and blood meant little to Tom), his siblings didn’t understand why he was distant, why they didn’t remember those two terrible years to clearly. 

He needed sun, and light, and oxygen. His wildflower needed to grow. In the empty years, without his touch and love Harry had been manic, but Tom was fastidious, kept his distance so that this - reunion, rekindle- would be so much sweeter, more than the mouthful of love he’d already tasted. 

Harry moved to the city two years ago, therapy could only do so much, and his shadow followed.  
The alienation of his peers sat under his skin, this Tom could understand as well as any survivor, he needed anonymity, needed to walk down the street undisturbed (oblivious). 

He took classes at a Muggle college (his sweet boy, how could he know that none of it mattered, the only thing he’d have to ever concern himself with would be Tom’s happiness) and he’d gotten the little cafe job even though his godfather had begged him to live with him here (Sirius Black, 43, partner Remus Lupin, known werewolf. His boy liked danger, he already knew), begged him to let him take care of him. 

Not his Harry, he had something to prove. 

“I do as well.” Harry had his head buried in this book for the better part of a week, he liked novels, but there was something about a book of poetry that really touched the barest parts of himself. 

“What is stronger than the human heart,” Tom who was once Voldemort who was once upon a time Tommy watches avidly as Harry’s eyes light up. He lets his angel finish on an exhale, the din of noise becoming silent around his lips. 

“Which shatters over and over, and still lives.” Tom’s smile, well-practiced in the natural light of his bathroom is a small and special little thing and even though his eyes want to flick where Harry moves infinitesimally closer to him they stay riveted to his face, his eyes that Tom had once already deprived himself of. 

Harry, his shy sweet boy, smirks a little dangerously, a little more daredevil. Tom remembers seeing that same smile once, shooting star flashing by before he caught it between two hands. 

“Most wizards your age wouldn’t know about that kind of muggle poetry.” He stills the rage in his hand, the possession that sits in his hind teeth, his lizard brain. Harry had been wild for a time, reckless with hurt, soothes by hands that didn’t understand, could never understand him. 

That was over now. 

Tom smiles back, a flirtatious game that he would normally have very little patience for but he’s learned, especially with this one, soft and steady. 

“Well,” he flicks at the little name badge pinned on Harry’s shirt, close enough that his fingers can almost feel this major sun’s warmth, “Harry, I’ve got to do my best to give you a better impression of wizards my age.” He deadpans the last part. The grey that flits around his hairline suits him well, aging doesn’t bother him like it used to, not since Harry. 

Harry, who was always special. 

He looks down, filling Tom’s cup up with another round. Tom leans back, exposed forearm trailing along the length of the empty chair next to him. He is the picture of calm, but he can feel all that nasty anxiety crawling like ants in his insides. He pushes his hair back, no product and curly with the late summer humidity in the air. 

Harry, adorable dimples winking out from his cheeks, messy hair tied into a low bun (and Tom hasn’t ever forgotten how soft it is), smiles a little more timidly now. 

“Well, “ It’s only awkward for Harry, only for a second before Tom extends the dangling hand (a leather wristwatch and a silver bracelet that was once the only thing that Merope had ever had that was worth a damn flash bright in the afternoon sun) and gives his name, his real name, no tricks, no follies, he will be bare (as bare as can be) with Harry. 

“Tom Riddle.” The feel of that skin, soft and smooth with his age, only to ever be burdened by Tom’s unpleasantness, is a balm to the raging inside his own head. 

“Nice to meet you, Tom Riddle.” Harry bites his lip, a nervous habit that Tom hasn’t seen in years this close. He looks at his own wristwatch, scratches stubble from two days and looks once again at Tom. Tom waits with bated breath, will not, cannot mess this up now that he’s so close again.

“I don’t normally do this…” Tom wants to say _Of course not, sweetheart_ but he keeps still, lets Harry jump these hurdles without any help. “But I get off in like five more minutes, would you like me to join you?” His boy is above all things now, safe, scared. He stays in well lit places in public, around people that watch out for him, keep him tucked close under wings.

He knows better now.

Tom is secretly pleased, the seduction of his boy a well worth thing.

“I’d like that.” He keeps it short, simple like the glance he gives to Harry, who already blushes bright when he nods, steps back with a fist clenched, shakes it out like a flower shaking in the wind.

He’s back in the time it takes Tom to reread the same poem twenty times, he calms his mind, the knee jerk reaction to take and own. His boy always bloomed so beautifully under time and care. He’s gotten rid of the little apron, in jeans so tight they look sinful, bare ankles, bright trainers. There’s a peak of a tattoo on his right foot, Tom aches to taste ink under his tongue but he’ll get there.  
He’ll get there. 

A cup of coffee turns into two, turns into hours as the sun sets at the little cafe. The electric lights glow down the little street littered with dried leaves, a breeze that ruffles Tom’s artfully effortless hair. Conversation flows easy between them, a quick back and forth that he savors, when there has been years that have passed without anything stimulating. Boredom has not atrophied all this time between them, while Tom was chasing that next thrill and the best thing that he had once held close had healed. 

Tom wasn’t careless, he was passionate, but he did thrive in a cruelty that came naturally to him. Only Harry had understood that, understood him. Days and weeks and years, all of it coming to a head over blood and bone. He and Harry had shared that, something not even the greatest of wizards could lay claim to.

A soul, split and stored between them. 

Can’t get much closer than that, and Tom wonders in his mind, in the twitch of his dick if Harry can feel it too, if he’s drawn to this older man in a way he can’t even begin to describe to himself, if he trusts his own gut? Tom knows, realistically, that the wound has healed but he wonders (hopes) the scar is still there. 

His scar.

“I’d like to give you my number.” Tom already has his card, ready to go in his wallet. He doesn’t reach for it until Harry’s eyes light up, then his face scrunches into an adorable smile, elbows on the table leaning so close to Tom. 

“You really aren’t like most wizards.” There’s something like awe in his voice, and Tom has seen enough lust to know that’s what glazes Harry’s eyes over, makes his lips a little fuller, juicier when he traps them between small white teeth. 

Tom hmms, smiles indulgently at his boy. 

“No, I’m not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love serial killer Tom, almost every variation. It’s the unrepentant deviancy, I’m not gonna lie.
> 
> This is my version of him, at his most masochistic.
> 
> *poem referenced is from milk and honey by Rupi Kaur*


	13. Lust (Love) at First Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags // Short, Dumpster Fire Verse

“So, that’s your new one?” Tom Riddle, who crouches down from six foot two, swings his head to watch the prettiest boy he’s ever seen this side of the pond. Granger, the slag, pushes him hard in the stomach, bony elbow going somewhere past his intestines so that he grunts and leans further over, his eyes still on pale, pale skin.

“Keep in in your pants, Riddle, Harry’s not into fuckboys like yourself.” Oh, well doesn’t that just make him ten times more interesting.

He snarls at her, his mouth curling up in derision. “Don’t tell me what to do.” She rolls her eyes at him, hefts her heaviest drum out of its case and mutters something about dicks dragging around bodies and lazy ass roadies.

He lifts his Les Paul from the case, black on black. _Nagini_ , his favorite, his best. His ride or die chick, no substitute. He’s been known to actually cut people for looking at her the wrong way but Bast wears the scar proudly. 

Granger is busy setting up on stage, but oh so pretty Harry has made his way back. Riddle stands up straighter, watches this little beauty tremble. He smokes, his ringed fingers twitching, he peaks at Riddle from underneath hair so black it looks blue.  
His eyes are green. Like stained glass, like emeralds, and Tom feels that empty space in his chest turn black hole, sucking in everything, even the air he breathes.

The boy’s lips tilt in a grin, ruby red, not as bright red as Granger’s and not Belkatrix’s angry slash of black. Harry’s mouth is all peachy curves, all cherry red, like lollies and blood. Tom’s favorites. He takes another pull of his cigarette, his body turning toward Tom’s. Tom does his own version of a smirk, touches his incisors with both sides of his tongue, bated breath and ready for ten minutes of heaven before soundcheck.

Fucking of course, Weasley finally shows up. He throws an arm around Harry, Tom’s nose scrunches in disdain. But Harry just laughs, hooks an arm around a scrawny back and let’s Weasley lead him onstage.

He doesn’t see the boy until after their set. By then the lights around the mainstage are blurry and he’s seventeen sheets to the dry, summer wind. He takes a little pink pill from a little pink boy, tongue on tongue. He thinks he might have fucked this little doll, somewhere between the beer and the coke. If that’s the case, the nights been a waste. Not even a memorable fuck.

He stumbles out of the tent, his dick half hard and his nicotine tolerance crashing quickly down to zero.

And the fates and stars have aligned because there leans his blue-black boy, all curled up with the answers to Tom’s blasphemous prayers between his hands.

“You’re ripe.” He smirk smiles, a beautiful sight, possibly even more beautiful than the cigarette he extends to Tom, who takes it gratefully, ducking his head to watch little fingers flick a zippo artfully. 

There are lilies engraved on it. Darling. 

“It’s an acquired taste.” Little boy blue laughs, soft and isn’t he candied all over. Tom stands straight again, looms over him while he leans against the bus. It’s early-late, even the traffic has slimmed to none and everyone is gone, near silent. They’ll be all loading into the inky blackness of their bunks before too long, sleeping it off before the next gig. 

“Oh, I’m sure.” He looks up, big baby doll eyes that Tom would love to see two feet lower, plush mouth wrapped around his prick instead of a Marlboro. He’ll have sweet dreams today. 

“Tom.” He says, can’t take his eyes off those eyes, feels fifteen again, skin too tight and clammy. Dangerous and reckless, a kind of Sid and Nancy dumpster fire feeling. 

“Harry.” Harry. Little Harry, who looks like all the damning dreams that keeps Tom from being a good boy, he can’t be past nineteen, jailbait should be tattooed on him somewhere. He’s small and tight, like Tom could roll him up, keep him in his pocket, carry him anywhere. 

“You played that new one tonight.” A razor flick of a wrist, Tom’s lizard brain fasts forward to understand what is actually coming out of that mouth. 

“Did you like it?” His voice tumbled out of him, dark and slow like he’s in front of thousands instead of one little boy. A grin catches ahold of Harry, and the silver of his dimple piercings wink at Tom in the lovely light of the shitty parking lot. 

Tom leans closer, eyes on eyes, like falling into bath water, right up to the neck. 

“I did.” Harry tilts his head back, showing Tom that long line of a beautiful throat, he wants to wrap hands and mouth around it simultaneously, greedy already. His eyes flicker back to Harry, about to close in on those too big six inches between them. 

“Har! Come on, get your skinny ass in here, we’ll take off without you!” He winces are the decibel that Granger puts into those words just as Harry ducks out from under his arms, walks backwards away. 

“Be seeing you, Tom Riddle.” Tom stands up straight, straighter. He keeps eyes on that boy until he turns, slides up four stairs and the folding doors close behind him. 

His heartbeat is a drum solo in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This is the Rock and Roll AU verse (yessss) featuring piercings, tattoos, and a beating heart love story.


	14. Kid!Fic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags // short

Something bluesy and acoustic plays in the apartment when Tom breaks in. It doesn’t take much, just two locks on top, one at the bottom, but the door is almost as thin as the cardboard that covers the people that sometimes linger in the hallways. He could have pushed it down with his shoulder, probably wouldn’t have even smarted. 

He didn’t figure Harry would appreciate it. Even less than this dip back into breaking and entering. It didn’t matter, Harry was the one that taught him how to hold the pin, wait for the clicks. 

It was his fault, really. 

A lovely guitar plays in the beats, loud enough to cover any sounds Tom might make, thank you very much. He leans on the frame of the door to take his shoes off, one wing tipped brogue after the other. Harry’s constant collection of trainers is amassed by the door, a cluster of colors and Tom shakes his head at the mess. 

The lone bedroom door is shut, yellow white on yellow white. He heads forward, until he catches the light that spills out in the tiny hallway. He immediately detours, slides in socks over the cheap linoleum all the way to the cracked open door of the bathroom. He stands, still as a predator, watching one gorgeous foot wiggle its toes to the beat.

“Darling. I’ve told you about using the chain.” Harry slides into the rim of the bathtub, waves of bubbles slinging onto a floor littered with clothes. The temptation of his bare leg goes out of Tom’s view immediately. 

“And I told you next time you snuck up on me you’d meet the business end of my wand.” His eyes narrow as Tom slides into the small humid bathroom. Harry’s hands grip the side, his eyes flick to said wand sitting so innocently on the counter that Tom immediately leans against. 

“Don’t be so dramatic, Harry. What’s a little B and E between friends?” Tom slides a charming smile onto his face, crossing his arms and ankles casually. He’s a little toothy with his grin but Harry doesn’t buy it for one second. 

“Not as good as friends as I thought, Tom. I don’t believe friends would have to worry about killing curses, would they?” Ouch. He’s going to bring that up right off the bat? Okay. Tom drops the grin for something sincere, darker but more genuine.

“I haven’t ever thought about using a killing curse on you, darling.” Harry and his hero saving complex and his utterly uncanny ability to be in the wrong fucking place at the wrong fucking time. 

“Well, I can’t quite say the same.” Harry narrows eyes and abruptly stands, steam and bubbles dripping off the smooth planes of his body. His fists are clenched and that anger just won’t do. Tom, ever the gentleman, pulls the towel from behind him, a quick non verbal heating charm and he holds it open for Harry. Harry raises one eyebrow, but steps out of the bath, dripping and silent. He turns, his shoulders a line of steel that tenses impossibly even more when Tom wraps the towel around him. He leans down, smelling Harry’s damp curls. 

“Now that hurts, darling. I’m much too interesting, imagine the boredom you’d face without me.” Harry looks up at him and the disdain on his face does something intoxicating to Tom.

“I think I’d manage. I could use less competition at any rate.” He leans closer to Tom, eyes on his, magnetic and reaches behind him, his wand once again firmly in hand. 

“Oh Harry, a world without me, what kind of life would that be?” Tom puts his arm, cautious, cautiously, around the slim dip of his side, his body too warm around him. 

“Less stressful.” Harry sends a quick stinging hex, and backs away, smirking. The little brat. He walks backwards as Tom follows, endlessly. 

“Darling.” Tom’s charming smile that fools young and old alike, it’s gotten him out of worse scrapes before, even into some delightful trouble, but with the way that Harry keeps backing up it won’t be that kind of afternoon.

“Oh no, I’m not falling for it. Don’t even try.” Of course it wouldn’t work with Harry. Tom rolls his eyes, but only that, he tucks them right back into Harry while he’s getting dressed. 

“Why are you even hiding out in this shithole?” He had tried two other safe houses before this one, sneaking into that penthouse was a bitch and a half and Tom’s knees were screaming at him for it.

“If it’s any of your business,” Tom rolls his eyes again, then flops into the couch coughing inelegantly at the dust that sprays up. “I’ve got to lay low for a little while.” Now, that was interesting. Harry raises a brow, obviously at Tom’s lack of decency at blatantly ogling him. Right, like Tom would ever miss that show. He huffs, pulling a black duffel from a loose floorboard and pops it on a rickety milk crate. Tom frowns, and even the gloriousness of Harry Potter’s bare ass can’t distract him from what he had just said.

“I thought you were laying low in Barcelona, you said after we got that necklace back for that jackass that you were taking a well-earned vacation.” Harry gives him a look at the comment, unimpressed Tom leans forward on his elbows as Harry pulls pants, trousers, shirt and a couple of stacks of euros and a handful of glittering gold galleons from the never-ending bag.

“Tom. Don’t use the term “we”. “We” didn’t pour over blueprints for a month, “we” didn’t have to put on that ridiculous get up, and “we” sure as shit didn’t have to be the distraction. You used your little scaffolding gear, and you turn a few knobs on a safe and you think you’re the one carrying the whole load.” 

“It was fifty stories, Harry. While you were getting your ass squeezed by geriatrics, mine was dangling over 200 hundred meters above the ground. And that window-”

“Don’t start with me on that window, I’m not getting into that again.” No arguments voice, Tom backs down for the time being. 

“Anyway, stop evading. Last I heard you were heading to Spain, imagine my surprise when my little birds sing your return.” Harry stops his counting of contraptions (Tom’s second favorite thigh strap hangs from his hands) and finally gives Tom his full attention. 

“Well, something turned up that I couldn’t say no to.” That was never a good thing, because the only thing that Harry couldn’t say no to was helping some poor sod out. Tom groans, leans back even though he knew that he’d have to burn these clothes once he left, the dust would never come out. He doesn’t say anything else, just watches Harry squeeze himself into those pants, long legs wrapped in black jeans indecently tight. Tom’s favorites, and he immediately becomes wary, this was looking like it was edging into favor territory now.

“Harry. What the fuck did you do?” Harry slips his too big sweater over his head, long enough to cover his hands and he immediately tucks them in, biting his lip and edging closer to where Tom was laid out on his shitty couch.

“I might have stolen something I wasn’t supposed to.” Do not fall for this, Tom Riddle. This was a game of chase that he thought he was in charge of, now he can see where that’s all gone pear shaped as Harry slinks closer to him. Small and pretty and dangerous, crippling all those defenses that kept everyone that wasn’t Harry away.

“That’s what we do, Harry, we always steal things we aren’t supposed to.” He keeps his tone even, especially when Harry opens those long legs and sits himself on Tom’s lap.

“Well, technically, this isn’t a thing.” His hands tuck back the hair that falls on his forehead, a part of his roguish charm as Harry liked to say. It had been more than a while since they’d been in this position, since he has the time and inclination to have Harry Potter in his lap. 

Of course he would need something. Tom will take what he can get at any rate. He pulls him closer, finally putting lips on lips. If Harry is surprised in any way he doesn’t show it, just places those lovely hands back in his hair 

“Harry.” Tom does a slow take at the voice, arms held tight to his sides immediately by Harry. A little girl, older than toddler, younger than teen pokes her head (and all that hair with it) out the closed bedroom door. She’s missing a tooth from the top and her dark fingers wrap nervously around the frame, cracked open just enough that she can scurry back inside. 

“Hermione, love, give us one moment.” The little girl nods, shuffling back. 

Tom’s eyes are double their size and Harry looks like he wants to laugh when he finally faces him. He presses one small kiss to the corner of Tom’s lips but Tom is held tight, white noise and shock under his skin, then whispers in his ear, “I’m going to need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, yes - thieves with obvious sexual tension on the run with genius child, featuring street wise kid Ron, exasperated mentor Severus, hippy Dumbledore. Oh, what a world.


End file.
